As it sometimes happens, in midafternoon there came a lull in the fighting. I found myself in the tight knot of fighters around Yoav. He was bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath, when one of his captains from a separate unit burst out of the underbrush, calling out that he had a message for the general.
Though I couldn’t recall his name, I knew him for one of Yoav’s chief captains. Sweat stained, bloody, he gasped out word that he’d just left Avshalom, hanging in a tree.
“How is this?” Yoav snapped.
“We prevailed against his bodyguard—hard fighting, many dead. When he saw that his best men had fallen—killed or injured, all—he fled for his life. He thought he’d give us the slip by driving his mule into a dense grove of elah trees. He was pushing his mount—booting it bloody. It was tossing its head and shying. He couldn’t bring it under control at all.” As he spoke I could feel the mule’s resistance to Avshalom’s cruel boots digging into her bruised sides, and his hard hand, wrenching the bit in her mouth. I felt the pounding of the beast’s generous heart, pressed beyond endurance. I was seeing as she saw, in great wide arcs on either side, but nothing at all straight in front of me. I felt her raw fear of the shifting light and shadow as she plunged forward into the trees. The assault of scent was overwhelming—the stink of blood, the fear stench coming from the man on my back. For a moment, I ceased to be Natan, standing in the clearing, but became the mule herself. Avshalom’s sharp heel once again bit into my side. I bucked. Avshalom leaned forward to clutch for my mane, but as he did so, I reared, throwing his head back, right into the twisted bough of the elah tree. The two halves of the branch had grown one over and around the other like crossed legs, formed over years in just such a way that one part gave way as the prince’s head cracked against it, opening just enough to entrap his neck, snapping back in a second to pin him in a timber noose, a living gallows. I shied sideways underneath him, freeing myself from his tormenting weight, then I plunged forward, leaving him dangling helplessly, suspended between heaven and earth. The vision ended. I saw and smelled once again as a man, through my own eyes and nostrils.
“Hanging?” barked Yoav. “Is the whoreson dead, then?”
“No, sir. He’s alive still, over yonder, caught up in the boughs of that high tree—you can just make out the crown of it from here,” he said, raising a quivering arm. I could see the tree he pointed to—wide, graceful, its oblate leaves quivering and shimmering in the slanting light.
Yoav grabbed up the bridle and slung his leg over his own mule. “You witnessed this, and you didn’t kill him? I’d have owed you ten shekels of silver and a belt.”
“Even for a thousand shekels, I wouldn’t raise my hand against the king’s son. We know the king’s orders. If I disobeyed them, would you have stood by me against his anger?”
Yoav gave no answer. He turned his mule toward one of his arms bearers and grabbed up three darts from the boy’s pouch. Then he urged his mule toward the thicket. Shlomo scrambled to his mount also and galloped after him. Yoav’s other attendants followed his lead.
Avshalom must have heard the crash of us, coming toward him through the trees. Yoav halted his mule and gazed up, his craggy, weathered features softening into a smirk of satisfaction. Shlomo drew up behind him, his face drawn. Avshalom’s eyes, bloodshot and bugging out of his breath-starved face, widened in fear. He tried to strangle out a cry but nothing issued from his purpling lips. He struggled anew to free himself, pulling at the boughs with all his strength, peeling his hands raw with the vain effort to pry the branches apart. But the pressure on his throat, starving him of air, soon depleted him. All he could do was use his failing strength to grip the boughs and support his weight, heaving himself up every moment or so to allow a shallow wisp of breath to reach his chest. His arms trembled with strain. His long hair enspooled itself in the twigs like yarn around a spindle.
Had Yoav waited—even a few minutes—Avshalom would surely have expired of suffocation. But as Avshalom had been impatient for power, so now Yoav was impatient for justice. He took the three darts, which he held in his left fist, and urged his mule forward. He took one dart in his right hand. “This,” he cried, plunging the dart into Avshalom’s chest, “is for betraying your father. This”—as he sank the second dart—“is for stealing his throne. And this,” he said, as he rammed home the last dart, “is for playing me for a fool.”
Avshalom’s body sagged, the handsome face transformed into a purpling grotesque, his swollen tongue hanging slack from his mouth. Yoav’s arms bearers, crying out in relief and bloodlust, swarmed forward and grabbed at the body, wrenching it out of the forked boughs, dragging it to the dirt. Half of Avshalom’s hair dangled from the branches, torn, the bloody shreds of scalp still attached. Only Shlomo stood back, his eyes blank and his lips compressed. When the youths stepped back from the corpse, only then did he move forward. He bent down and picked up a stone in each hand. For a moment it seemed he meant to further desecrate his brother’s body. Instead, he knelt, and placed the stones reverently. Then he rose and scanned the ground for more. The other youths looked to Yoav, confused. He lifted his chin and folded his arms. “Do it,” he said. “Help him.” Yoav turned away and rode back to the main part of his army, where he ordered the sounding of horns in the series of blasts that signaled victory. As the failing sun fingered through the treetops, the only other sound was the scuffling of feet in the leaves and the chink of stones settling upon Avshalom’s shattered body, as his cairn rose high around him. When it was done, Shlomo threw dirt on his hair and tore his tunic. But as he said the words of the prayer for the dead, his eyes were dry and his voice steady.
Shlomo and I turned back toward Mahanaim, to be with David. I knew that we could not outrun the news of Avshalom’s death, so we did not force our pace, resting the footsore, battle-weary mules that carried us. As we rode, the shofar calls carried from one unit to another, echoing all around us through the smoky air. As they heard the high, exultant blasts, Avshalom’s forces scattered and fled, knowing that their uprising had failed. Yoav sent out orders: Let them cross the river. There would be no more killings. No pursuit.
XXVI
Well before Shlomo and I reached the gates of Mahanaim, a sentry on the tower called down to David that he saw a man running, alone.
David sprang up. “If he is alone, he has tidings in his mouth.” He raised a hand to shade his eyes, scanning the distance for a sight of the messenger. As soon as he could make him out, he left his place at the gate and ran forward to meet him.
As he closed the distance between them, the messenger cried out, “All is well! Praised be the Name, who has delivered up the men who raised their hand against the king.”
“Is my boy Avshalom safe?” David cried out to him.
“Let my king know that the Name has vindicated you from all who rebelled against you!”
“Is my boy Avshalom safe?” David demanded again, his voice quavering.
Because he was a foreigner, perhaps, the messenger did not know how his next words would be received. His voice was joyful. “May the enemies of the king and all who rose against you to do you harm fare like that young man!”
The king turned away, blindly pushing off all who rushed to bring him comfort. He staggered back to the gateway, braying like a beaten donkey. It was Batsheva who told me all this, when I rode in with Shlomo. Her face lit for a moment when she saw Shlomo unharmed, but a hollow-eyed look of anguish and concern soon clouded her features. “He’s inconsolable,” she said. We walked to his rooms. He was prone on the couch in the inner chamber and would not admit us. Through the door, I could make out the rasping words, repeated over and over again: “My son, Avshalom. Oh, my son, my son Avshalom! If only I had died instead of you! Oh, Avshalom, my son, my son!”
On the other side of that door, I felt a great sigh shudder through me. David did not, could not know it, but with this last loss, hi
s punishment, the fourfold retribution that he himself had decreed, was at last completed. The nameless infant. Tamar. Amnon. Avshalom. This would be the last great mourning of his long life, and the most bitter of them all.
Yet it came hard, to the battle-weary troops filing back into the city. They expected to be greeted with singing women and celebration. Instead, they had to creep into a town where a funereal silence prevailed.
When Yoav arrived to the mute palace, he became inflamed with rage. He barged into the antechamber where I sat with Shlomo and Batsheva, and pushed past the attendants who tried to bar his way. “I will see the king, for whom I have just won the victory.”
I did not try to hold him back, but followed him, and almost got hit in the face by the heavy door as he slammed it in his anger. I put out my boot at the last minute to wedge the door open, and sidled in behind him. The king lay with his face to the wall, a shawl cast over his head. Yoav stood over the king, his arms folded and his legs apart. Yoav’s face worked. He could hardly choke his words out, so intense was his anger:
“What sort of act is this?”
The king rolled onto his side, took the cover off his face for a moment, glanced up at Yoav with wet, blank eyes, and then threw himself back onto his face, moaning.
“Do you even know what you are doing?” Yoav’s voice rose. “You have humiliated all your followers. All of us who this day saved your life. And the lives of your sons, and the lives of your wives and concubines. You show love for those who hate you and hate for those who love you. For today you have made it clear that the officers and men mean nothing to you. If Avshalom were alive today and the rest of us dead, would you like that better? You would! Fool, you would prefer it!”
David didn’t move. Yoav kicked the pallet, hard.
“Get up! Come outside, and speak a kind word to your loyal followers! For I swear, if you don’t get up and get out there and give these men the love that is due to them, not a single one of us will be here in the morning.”
Slowly, the king raised a hand and drew the shawl off his haggard face. He fixed his gaze on Yoav. It was the blankest, coldest look I have ever seen. He got to his feet. Deliberately, he walked to the ewer, poured water into the bowl and splashed his face. When Batsheva came in, and moved to help him, he pushed her gently away. He dragged his hands through his damp hair and drew himself up to his full height. He took a breath, and without looking back at Yoav, he spoke in a low, dead voice. “I will do as you say, and set aside my mourning, even if I do not set aside my grief.” His voice caught for a moment on that last word, but he took another breath and composed himself. “Send word to Amasa. He is my flesh and blood just as much as you are. But you killed my son, and he served him. I will have him, therefore, to command my army. Not you. You”—he turned, and leveled a killing glare at Yoav—“are relieved.”
David walked out, holding himself very erect. I could see the lines of strain in his face, the effort each step cost him. He went to the gateway and called for his troops. And there he stood, for hour after hour, as the men filed by, taking time with each man who wanted a word with him. He did not hide his pain from them. He didn’t have to. Unlike Yoav, the common soldiers did not blame him for his excessive grief. They knew him. They knew his flaws. Indeed, I think they loved him all the more because he was flawed, as they were, and did not hide his passionate, blemished nature.
I did not go down with him, but stayed behind in the bedchamber with Yoav. I watched the high color of his anger drain away until he was the pale gray of mortar. I made a sign to clear the room and poured a cup of wine. I had to place it in his hand and curl his fingers around the stem of the goblet.
As soon as we were alone, the door closed, I spoke to him in a low voice. “This is not what it seems to be,” I said. “Don’t take it to heart.”
Yoav snapped out of his stunned trance and glared at me. “‘Don’t take it to heart’? Are you entirely witless? I have been relieved of my command—I, who saved his wretched life a dozen times, who have followed him, murdered for him. . . . ‘Don’t take it to heart’ when he replaces me with that traitor?”
“You must see that it’s a ploy,” I said. “He needs Amasa to bring the insurgents back to his side. He can’t return to the city if half the people are cowering, afraid of his wrath because they cheered for his traitor son. And he must also win back those who still are against him, willing to rise up for the next man who can rally Shaul’s loyalists. He has always been a fox, you know that. He’s using his grief for his son and his anger at you as a shield to hide his true intentions. He needs Amasa. For now. But not for long. Be patient. Bide your time. Eat your pride. When the kingdom is knit back into whole cloth, then you can avenge this slight. Think on it. You will see I’m right. You’re not your brothers. You’re not reckless like Asahel and Avishai. You never have been. The making of this kingdom is your work as much as the king’s. So don’t throw it away in a moment’s rage, no matter how justified.”
Yoav drained the cup and banged it down on the table. “You talk and you talk. And I never know what to make of your words. Do you know these things? Or are you playing me for some other purpose? If he’s a fox, what are you? Snake? Rat? You say you serve him, and yet you’ve let him walk into every kind of misery and disaster. I never know where I am with you. What you say could be solid gold or not worth a pitcher of piss. How’s a normal man to fathom you? I don’t even know you, after all these many years.”
I opened my hands at my sides. “All you say is true,” I said. “I am a breath, no more than the ever-turning wind. I can only ask you to believe that I serve the kingdom. This kingdom that you have done so much to make. You will do now what you must. But think on what I have said.” Then I left him there and went to find Shlomo. It was important to bring him with me, to stand behind the king, so that we would be there if he turned to look for us.
XXVII
David seemed to take some sustenance from the outpouring of love that he felt from his fighters as they came to him one by one at the gate. In any case, he came to himself sufficiently to make the shrewd judgments that were required of him at that delicate time. We sat down in Mahanaim to bury the dead, mourn the fallen and bind the wounds of the injured. During that time, David sent emissaries to the city and to the provinces, offering pardons and allaying the fears of the rebels who had expected retribution. The elevation of Amasa served him well there. But Amasa wasn’t half the general—or the man—that Yoav was, and I felt in my bones that David must know that. One sign that he did: he redivided the army and distributed command. He left Ittai in full charge of his loyal Plishtim. Benaiah still had command of the other foreign forces including the king’s bodyguard. But most tellingly, Avishai retained command of his own company and was given his brother’s units also. So Amasa’s direct control of the forces was severely constrained.
The return to Ir David was accompanied by much celebration. We returned in a very different manner than we had left. David was escorted home by a contingent that included representatives of all the regions and tribes. There was music, of course, and dancing. All who came to the hall of audience seeking reconciliation were granted it. Even the life of Shimei, the kinsman of Shaul who had stoned David during his flight from the city, was spared. Avishai protested, of course, begging the king to let him dispatch the man, but the king rebuked him and said he would show mercy. By extending forgiveness even to such a one, David made sure that his message was clear. He was back on the throne as the king of all Israel.
Which is not to say there was peace in the waning years of his reign. Our strife-prone people are quick to fan grievance, to take sides and to foment revolt. But David’s hand was steady in those final years, his judgments cool and measured. It was as if the shortening length of his days and the toll of his illness made him more aware of the limits to his strength. And having less, he spent more wisely. By paying attention to small grievances, he
acted to make sure they did not fester into major enmities. If the underlying demand was reasonable, the older David was more likely to accede to it. But conversely, the older David was less likely to overlook any small act that presaged rebellion. If news came to his ears that someone was fomenting schism, that man would be eliminated with dispatch.
During the months after the return to the city, David drew Adoniyah close, thinking to test his mettle now that he was no longer thoroughly overshadowed by his fierce older brothers. It was clear that Adoniyah expected this, and he preened under the king’s attention. But it became painfully clear that Adoniyah’s abilities were modest, his nature incurious and his understanding limited. In a very short while, David became impatient with this, and stopped including him in the most important councils, finding it easier to get things done with those who knew his mind.
Rather than seeing this as a slight, Adoniyah took it as license to resume his dissipated occupations. He did make a stab of emulating Avshalom, if not in ability, then in excess, providing himself with merkavot and horses, hiring outrunners, and generally assuming the trappings of a young man who expects to be king. David, typically, only shrugged indulgently at the folly of it when it was brought to his notice.
Avshalom had gained much from his mother—the sense of destiny that derived from her lineage, and the polish and entitlement that came with being the son of a favorite wife herself born royal. Adoniyah had none of these advantages. His own mother, Hagit, had been one of the minor political marriages of the precarious early years in Hevron. She was never a favorite. Once David got a son on her, his interest waned. The king rarely sent for her and, as a boy will, Adoniyah keenly felt the slight. It was, I think, a bitter little seed that he watered over time with envy.
Avshalom had possessed other qualities Adoniyah lacked, in addition to the advantage of his birth. Avshalom had been willing to do the work of winning men’s hearts, and had an inborn understanding of what it took to do that. Adoniyah had no such qualities. Vain and feckless, he cultivated only such people who were sycophants and opportunists. There were always plenty of those, ready to fawn on a young man who stands in line for a crown. Some of Avshalom’s followers fell into Adoniyah’s circle, seeking the superficial glamour it offered. None of this was surprising.