“Someday, you’ll be very beautiful, and wiser than you are right now, I hope. At the very least, wise enough to understand that some things are not meant to be. Your father will find a good husband for you, and you’ll forget you ever thought yourself in love with David.”
Never! Never, never, never! Bathsheba blinked back tears and turned her head away.
“When you grow up, my love, you will understand the wisdom of worshiping God and not a man.”
Bathsheba lay still until she heard the sound of her mother’s deepened breathing. Then she eased out of her arms and crawled to the other side of the tent to peer into the night once more. Her father and grandfather had returned to the fire, and David had joined them once again. They spoke quietly of battle plans. Bathsheba closed her eyes and listened to the sound of David’s voice. Content, she fell asleep.
* * *
When she awakened the next morning, Bathsheba found herself on her pallet, under her blanket. Her father snored beside her mother. Bathsheba rose quietly and left the tent. David would be up by now. He was always up before everyone else, and he always went off by himself to pray. She had seen him several times coming back from the stream, so she hurried toward it now. Her heartbeat quickened when she spotted David kneeling by a rippling pool, washing his face, arms, and hands. Her father and grandfather always did the same thing before they prayed.
Her footfall caused a soft cascade of pebbles to spill down the slope. David turned sharply, eyes intent, hand on the hilt of his sword. When he saw her, he relaxed.
“You’re up early, Bathsheba. Aren’t you a little far from camp?”
Her heart hammered as she came closer. “I came to get water.”
“Then you have a problem, little one.”
“What problem?”
He smiled. “You have no jug.”
Heat surged into her cheeks. When he started to turn away, she spoke quickly before she lost all her courage. “Could we talk awhile, David? I came all this way to see you.”
He turned and looked at her. “You shouldn’t be so far from camp. It’s dangerous. Go on back to your tent where you belong.”
“But—”
“You know your mother wouldn’t be happy you strayed so far. I don’t think she’d be pleased if she had to come searching for you a second time.”
Crushed by his reprimand, Bathsheba bolted up the slope, ducked behind some rocks, and sat down heavily. Trembling, she put her cold palms against her burning cheeks. Then she took a breath and peered out from her hiding place. David was still standing by the stream, his hands now on his hips. “Go home before you’re missed! And don’t leave the camp again!”
Sucking in a sob, Bathsheba clambered up and ran all the rest of the way back to her father’s tent, thankful no one was awake to see her tears—or ask the cause of them.
* * *
Word came that the Philistines were going out against Saul. Bathsheba’s grandfather and father laid out their armor and weapons. Bathsheba helped her mother prepare parched grain and raisin cakes for them to take with them. Her mother was silent, as she always was before the men left. So, too, was Bathsheba as she listened to them talk.
“We go tomorrow and join the ranks of Philistines,” her grandfather said. Bathsheba remembered the plan she had overheard David talking about. His men would only be pretending to help the Philistines. Really, they were waiting for a chance to help King Saul defeat this enemy army.
“Surely they’ll suspect David’s offer as pretense,” her father said tightly. “It’s only through God’s mercy that we haven’t been caught raiding the Geshurite and Amalekite villages these past years.”
“We’ve timed our raids carefully and left no survivors.”
“Rumors spread . . .”
“David wants to be in a position to help Saul. If the Philistines reject our offer of aid, there’ll be nothing we can do.”
“Saul’s fate is in God’s hands already, and I don’t like leaving our women and children on their own.”
As the sun rose the next morning, Bathsheba watched her father and grandfather leave camp with David. As soon as they were out of sight, her mother went inside the tent and wept. She was quickly herself again. She sat in the shade of the tent carding wool and sent Bathsheba off with the sheep.
The day after the men left, Bathsheba was bringing water up from the stream when she heard yelling and screaming. Dropping the skin, she ran up the bank. Amalekite raiders were charging into the camp while women fled in a dozen directions, grabbing up their children as they ran. Defenseless, they were quickly rounded up like a scattered flock.
When Bathsheba saw a man knock her mother to the ground and try to tie a rope around her flailing hands, she shrieked and ran at him in a fury. Jumping on his back, she clawed his forehead and yanked his hair. “Let her go! Let my mother go!”
With an angry shout, the man caught hold of her hair and hurled her over his shoulder. She hit the ground hard. Gasping for breath, she made it to her hands and knees, but someone looped a rope around her neck. Rolling over, she grabbed it and kicked the man. He uttered a harsh groan and bent over, his face going white while one of his company called out a laughing insult. “Is that little flea too much to handle?”
Enraged, the Amalekite gave the rope a hard yank. As she choked, he dragged her up by her arm and shook her violently. “Fight me and I’ll drag you to your death!” He sent her flying into the line of women and children.
Sobbing, her mother quickly loosened the rope and clasped her close. “Bathsheba! Oh, Bathsheba!”
Bathsheba coughed violently and wretched and dragged in a full, painful breath. “David will—” Her mother clapped a hand over her mouth and shushed her. She’d never seen terror in her mother’s face before this day.
The Amalekite guard turned on her. “No talking!”
The women and older children were tied and led away. Younger children were carried. The band of raiders and captives walked for hours, the midday heat bearing down hard upon the women and children, who were given only enough water to keep them going. They stopped as the sun was setting. Most of the women collapsed, too tired even to whimper. Each captive was given a handful of parched grain.
Bathsheba ate ravenously, but her stomach still ached with hunger. Her neck was bruised and burned from the rope. Her throat hurt from the hard yank she’d received early that day. Her feet were raw from walking across dusty, rocky ground. Her body ached all over. When she began to cry, her mother pulled her close and shared her body warmth as the moon and stars appeared and the temperature plummeted.
“I’m afraid, Mother.” Bathsheba cried softly.
Her mother stroked her hair back from her sunburned face. “It does no good to cry. We need to save our strength for whatever lies ahead.”
“David will come looking for us, won’t he?”
“We will pray that he and your father return quickly.” She held Bathsheba tighter. Bathsheba felt her mother trembling and asked no more questions. “Pray, my daughter. Pray hard.”
And Bathsheba did. David, oh, David, come and find us. Come and save us!
The Amalekites kept the women on the move, hastening them toward a future of slavery, prostitution, and death. Exhausted, the women and children collapsed each night, too bone weary to cause their captors trouble of any kind. After the first two nights, they were left unbound while the men sat around the campfire, drinking and laughing. No guards watched over them. There was no need after so many miles of travel.
When the sun rose and set on the third day, hope waned.
* * *
Bathsheba awakened abruptly to the sound of battle cries. The air around her reverberated with shouts and screams. Confused and terrified, she tried to rise, but her mother grabbed her. “Stay down!” She pulled her back and down as a nearby Amalekite grabbed for his sword. He fell back with a scream, his arm severed, and then his head as well. Horrified, Bathsheba looked up at the attacking warrior who j
umped across the lifeless body. Her father’s friend Uriah! Shouting his battle cry, he charged on. If Uriah was here, surely her father was also, and her grandfather.
“Abba!” Bathsheba screamed. “Abba!”
The Amalekites fell back and tried to run, but they were cut down without mercy by avenging fathers, husbands, and brothers. Bathsheba saw Ittai the Gittite hack, from shoulder to sternum, the guard who had choked her. The roar of battle was terrifying. Israelites cried out in wrath; Amalekites screamed in terror. The clash of swords and thunder of men’s feet were all around her as she cowered against her mother.
And then it was over. As quickly as it had started, it ended, and the silence was a shock. The bloodied bodies of the Amalekite raiders lay sprawled around the camp, while the men left standing were no less terrifying in their stained garments, their hands and arms and weapons splashed with red.
Bathsheba heard David call out, “Ahinoam! Abigail!” Other men cried out names as well, searching for their wives and children.
“Here! I’m here!” women cried back. All was still in confusion.
“Eliam!” Her mother let go of her and ran into her father’s arms, sobbing against his chest.
“Bathsheba,” he said raggedly and held out his arm, but she couldn’t move at the sight of him covered in blood. His eyes were so fierce he looked like a stranger. “Come, Daughter,” he said more gently, still breathing hard. “Come to me. I won’t hurt you.” Trembling violently, she looked away and saw the carnage around her.
Her grandfather was there suddenly, catching her up in his arms, holding her close. “You are safe, my little flower.” Over his shoulder, Bathsheba saw David speaking with Ahinoam and Abigail. She lost sight of him again when her grandfather put her back on her feet, his hand firmly upon her shoulder, keeping her against his side. “War is always worse for the children,” he said gruffly.
“I didn’t think you’d be able to find us,” her mother said, her arms still around Bathsheba’s father. “Oh, Eliam, you would’ve been proud of your daughter.” She told him about everything from the day the Amalekites had raided the camp.
Bathsheba closed her eyes, but even then she couldn’t block out the picture of the slaughter around her. She was cold and couldn’t stop shaking. She understood now why her mother cried every time her father left camp with David.
“The Philistines turned us away,” her father said. “If they hadn’t, we might not have been able to track you so quickly.”
Her mother frowned. “Saul?”
“He’s outnumbered.”
“What will David do?”
“The only thing he can do. Nothing.”
On the way back to camp, some of the men argued over the share of spoils they’d taken from the Amalekite camp. They were not willing to share with those who had been too tired to cross the river. David commanded that the spoils be divided equally among all the men, with gifts to be sent to the elders of Israel’s cities.
And so it was done, but not without grumbling.
* * *
An Amalekite came into David’s camp, bearing news of Israel’s defeat. Bathsheba was listening when he told David that Saul and his son Jonathan had been killed by the Philistines at Mount Gilboa. Their bodies were hanging on the wall of Beth-shan, while Saul’s weapons had been placed in the temple of Ashtoreth. When the messenger stepped forward and stretched out his arms, murmurs issued from David’s men, who stood by, watching. The Amalekite smiled broadly, triumphant, as he offered David Saul’s crown.
David looked at it and began to shake with rage. Bathsheba wondered why he was so angry. David took the proffered crown. “How do you know that Saul and Jonathan are dead?” he demanded.
The man’s eyes flickered. Perhaps the Amalekite sensed something ominous in David’s tone. “I happened to be on Mount Gilboa,” he answered. “I saw Saul there leaning on his spear with the enemy chariots closing in on him. When he turned and saw me, he cried out for me to come to him. ‘How can I help?’ I asked him. And he said to me, ‘Who are you?’ I replied, ‘I am an Amalekite.’ Then he begged me, ‘Come over here and put me out of my misery, for I am in terrible pain and want to die.’ So I killed him,” the Amalekite told David, “for I knew he couldn’t live. Then I took his crown and one of his bracelets so I could bring them to you, my lord.”
Even from her vantage point, Bathsheba could see the blood drain from David’s face. “Were you not afraid to kill the Lord’s anointed one?” he cried. As the man shifted his weight, David said to one of his men, “Kill him!” So the man thrust his sword into the Amalekite.
“You die self-condemned!” David spoke into the impaled man’s face. “For you yourself confessed that you killed the Lord’s anointed one.” He yanked the sword from the Amalekite and watched him crumple to the ground.
David must have felt the eyes of all upon him, for he looked around at the silent men, women, and children staring at what he’d done. Bathsheba longed to understand, to share his grief. His emotions burst forth and he cried out, “Your pride and joy, O Israel, lies dead on the hills! How the mighty heroes have fallen! O King Saul!” He sobbed, dropping the sword and holding his head. “Oh, Jonathan! Jonathan, my brother!”
David’s grief infected the entire camp as everyone mourned the death of King Saul and David’s best friend, Jonathan. David sang songs of tribute to them, reminding the people of the good days when Saul had loved the Lord and served Him.
And when the period of mourning came to an end, David obeyed the Lord and moved his army to Hebron.
* * *
It was at Hebron that Bathsheba watched David marry Maacah. Through the years she watched him marry Haggith, Abital, and Eglah, and with each wedding, she heard he made important alliances. He needed allies, for despite Saul’s death, the house of Saul continued to wage war upon David. “He has an eye for beautiful women,” she heard her grandfather say. Amnon was born to Ahinoam, Kileab to Abigail, Absalom to Maacah.
Messengers came from Abner, commander of the army of Saul’s son Ishbosheth, proposing an alliance. Bathsheba’s grandfather advised David to be cautious and test Abner’s sincerity and strength. So David sent word that he would not agree to anything unless his first wife, Saul’s daughter Michal, was returned to him.
“He must love her very much,” Bathsheba said. She still could not look at David without feeling a quickening inside her, but she was more clear-sighted now that she was almost grown than she had been as a small child. She no longer clung so tenaciously to her fantasies of marrying the man of her dreams.
Her mother shook her head. “Love has nothing to do with it. What rightfully belonged to David must be restored. He will take Michal into his house, but she will never have children.”
“All of his other wives have had children. She will also.”
“Your grandfather will advise against it. She’s been defiled by adultery. King Saul gave her to another man years ago, when you were just a baby. Besides that, should David beget a child by her and build the house of Saul? May it never be! David will listen to your grandfather. He will provide for Michal and protect her, but he will never touch her again.”
Bathsheba felt pity for Michal. “It would have been kinder to leave her with the other man.” And David would have one less wife, one less beautiful woman in his household.
“Perhaps,” her mother said quietly. “I heard that the man followed her for miles, weeping and wailing. Abner had to order him away. But David is a king, Bathsheba. He is not an ordinary man.”
“No one could ever have called David ordinary, even before he was king.”
Her mother looked at her solemnly. Bathsheba smiled. “Don’t worry, Mother. I know I am only the daughter of a humble warrior.” Something flickered in her mother’s eyes. Bathsheba turned away. “If David will never have children with Michal, why is it so important she be returned to him?”
“He must prove himself strong. A king who cannot keep possession of the women who
belong to him cannot hold a kingdom together.”
Bathsheba knew David was strong enough. What strength he lacked God would provide. She looked toward his tent. “Do you think she loves him?”
“She did once. She even saved his life. But that was years ago.”
“I don’t think he loves her anymore. I don’t think he’s ever given his heart to any woman, not completely.”
“Oh, my dear.” Her mother sighed heavily. “It is wiser for a woman to fall in love with a poor man who can afford only one wife.” Bathsheba’s throat closed hot, and she blinked back tears as her mother rose and came to her, turning her around and tipping her chin up. “You became a woman a month ago. I spoke with your father, and he says someone has already spoken to him regarding you.”
Bathsheba’s heart pounded with trepidation. “Who?”
Her mother smiled. “A good man. A strong one.”
“Who is it?”
“I won’t say until it’s settled, but if it comes to be, you will have a husband you can respect.”
“Respect, but not love.”
“In time, love, too. If you allow it.”
* * *
Bathsheba’s father and grandfather accepted the bride-price from Uriah the Hittite, and all, in their minds, was settled. Her mother, in an effort to encourage her, explained their many reasons for choosing him. Uriah had saved her father once in battle; Uriah was counted among David’s thirty mighty men; Uriah had proven himself valorous and dependable in hard times. Ahithophel had seen Uriah charge into the hottest battle without fear in order to defend David. He was admired and respected by all, and a friend of the king. Such a man would be able to protect her and provide for her and the children she would give him.
“He’s a courageous man, Bathsheba, and he’s loyal. He’s been wise with his possessions. Unlike others, Uriah hasn’t squandered the spoils he gathered in battles against the Philistines and Amalekites.”
“But he’s so much older than I am!”
Her mother looked her in the eyes. “He’s a year younger than David.”