Love’s Sacred Song (8 page)

“Edna!” old Ruth shouted. The women encircling the well fell silent, and Edna looked like a camel chewing its cud.

Arielah stifled a giggle, and Ruth offered a kind smile. “Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning,” Arielah said, stepping forward to kiss Ruth’s feathery, wrinkled cheek. “How are you feeling today, my friend?”

The old woman waved her hand as if shooing flies. “Never ask an old woman that question, my dear. She might answer you.” She winked one hooded eye and returned her attention to her matchmaking friend. “Edna, let’s not ask Arielah to discuss politics this early in the morning. Let’s talk about something far more interesting.”

Women around the well lifted questioning brows.

“Men,” Ruth said. “Let’s talk about men.”

Raucous laughter echoed in the well, resounding as if an entire town had gathered for entertainment.

Once again Edna turned her attention to Arielah. “All right, let’s talk about men,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “When is your abba going to pay me a visit, Arielah? You’re not getting any younger, you know. The time for your match is well past due.”

Arielah’s cheeks flamed as the women began offering suggestions for Arielah’s potential husband.
This is why I hate gathering water at the well.
She smiled and nodded, trying to act interested, while the whole time her heart ached for a young prince who was now Israel’s king.

•
 1 Kings 2:23 
•

Then King Solomon swore by the
Lord
: “May God deal with me, be it ever so severely, if Adonijah does not pay with his life for this request!”

S
olomon had been awake since the first shaft of dawn’s light shone through his abba’s garden doorway. Would it ever feel like
his
garden,
his
personal chamber? The servants had cleaned, perfumed, and fanned every nook and cranny to clear away the scent of Abba David’s long illness, but they couldn’t wash away the memories.

The king’s private garden, its archway just a few cubits from Solomon’s sleeping couch, once held the wild beasts of King David’s hunts. When his abba fell ill, Solomon ordered that the caged lions and panthers be taken away, jokingly threatening to lead the hunt if they escaped. The advisors laughed with him at the absurdity of Solomon wielding a weapon, but Benaiah’s stern gaze chided the young regent’s self-scorn. Though Solomon had endured the same military drills as David’s other sons, the prince whose name embodied peace never excelled at war.

“Good morning, my lord.” Benaiah’s deep voice resonated from the captain’s private entrance. His brow furrowed in concern. “You look awful, Solomon.”

“Good morning, my lord,” came Ahishar’s nasally greeting from the double cedar doors. “My, my, you look well rested. Ready to tackle this morning’s difficult tasks, your majesty?”

A wry smile creased Solomon’s lips. The two greetings summarized the difference in his closest advisors. Benaiah’s comfortable honesty, brutal yet trustworthy. Ahishar’s fawning flattery, ever dutiful and efficient.

“Come, let’s break our fast together,” he said, inviting them both to the small ivory table in his meeting chamber. “I’d like to share what Jehovah has whispered to my soul.”

Again Solomon observed with interest the difference in each man’s response. Benaiah moved to his familiar place at the table, his expression filled with anticipation, while Ahishar fumbled nervously with the clay tablet and stylus in his hand.

“My lord,” Ahishar began hesitantly, “I have so much to accomplish before you initiate the official grieving period. Though I would love to break my fast with you, I—”

“Sit down, Ahishar.”

“Yes, my lord.” The steward folded his wiry legs beneath him and plopped down on a goatskin rug.

Chamber servants hurried from Solomon’s private suite and out the garden door. They would wind through the back stairway to the kitchen, retrieving Solomon’s usual breakfast of goat’s milk, bread, and cheese—and figs, of course. He loved figs. Studying the Mighty Men whom Benaiah had stationed in his chamber last night, he asked his captain, “What in creation do they eat? Their biceps are as big as my thighs.”

Benaiah’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “They eat high stewards who argue with kings.”

The comment drew a sneer from Ahishar and a chuckle from Solomon. “All right, you two,” the king said, again playing peacemaker between his clever officials. “I’ve been up most of the night contemplating King David’s final words to me.” His words sobered Benaiah and Ahishar, who now offered their full attention. “I keep recounting Abba’s words, ‘Establish your throne and then seek peace, for yourself and for Israel.’ I feel as though I must deal swiftly with Joab and Shimei, pronounce judgment before I institute the thirty-day grieving period.”

Ahishar and Benaiah exchanged concerned glances. Benaiah spoke first, compassion shadowing his features. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Solomon swallowed hard and watched Benaiah do the same. “I fell asleep just before dawn, but the nightmares returned.” Solomon averted his gaze, studying the shabby sackcloth covering his feet.

“You’ve been working night and day since your abba made you his successor.” Benaiah’s giant hand clamped down on Solomon’s shoulder. “The mourning period will give us all some much-needed time for reflection and rest. Are you sure these matters of state can’t wait until your mind is clearer?”

“Perhaps,” Solomon said, then searched both advisors’ faces. “I spent most of the night staring at my chamber doors, imagining an invasion of hostile nations taking over my kingdom before I’ve even had a chance to rule. And it’s not just foreign invasion I dread. The messengers we dispatched to the northern tribes to announce Abba David’s death returned with reports of a clandestine elders’ meeting in Shunem.”

Ahishar gasped, but Benaiah remained steady, having been the one to share the report with Solomon.

“So tell me,” the king continued, “why did the northern leaders gather, Benaiah? Are they preparing for civil war?” His voice had risen to a shrill whine, like a frightened boy.

Benaiah remained silent, but Ahishar looked panicked. Solomon couldn’t tell if he feared war or the delay in his morning schedule, and the thought gave the king a moment to regain control. “How can we hope for peace with neighboring nations—or even peace with our own northern tribes—if I don’t establish the peace of my abba’s dying wish?”

Tears brimmed on Benaiah’s lashes. “You must do what Jehovah whispers to your spirit, King Solomon. Pronounce judgment on the traitors, and I will be faithful to mete out their punishment.”

“But, my lord!” Ahishar’s voice erupted. “I don’t understand how we can postpone the burial procession to the royal tomb. Surely you have considered the effect of the warm spring sun on King David’s wrapped body.” The steward looked stricken, alternating pleading glances from captain to king.

Solomon swallowed hard. He was trying
not
to think of his abba’s body wrapped in the myrrh and spices of a burial shroud. Pinning his steward with a sharp stare, he said, “Send orders that the servants add more spices to dispel the odor. I will obey my abba’s final wishes before I say my last good-bye.”

Ahishar straightened his shoulders and righted his posture. Looking as if he might bite off his tongue, he offered no further argument. “Yes, my lord.”

The servants arrived with the customary meal, and all three ate in relative silence, the droning of mourners now the routine setting of every thought, word, and deed.

Solomon exited his private chamber through the veiled corner door leading into the great throne hall. When he emerged from behind two heavy tapestries, trumpets blared and servants bowed. Solomon ascended the stairs to his throne as usual, ready to quiet the customary applause. But the sound of trumpets dwindled; the routine ovation faded.

Every sound was shrouded by the eerie echoes of mourning.

Scanning the sea of grief before him, Solomon was touched and humbled. He extended grateful hands to his people, his throat too tight to speak. As one, the gathered Israelites bowed to their new king, and Solomon could hold back his tears no longer.

Suddenly distracted by a commotion on his right, he glanced toward the archway between the throne hall and courtyard. There stood Ima Bathsheba, waiting to be recognized. “Come, Ima. Join me,” he said, wiping his cheeks and beckoning her to the dais.

She glided across the floor as if carried on a cloud. She was stunning. Even after the torturous days of Abba’s illness, even in a grieving robe and slippers, she was breathtaking, and for the first time, Solomon saw Ima as a woman.

He recognized the distinctive beauty that had won his abba’s love. She had never dressed like the other wives with seductive makeup, ornate robes, and heavy jewelry. Ima Bathsheba was a farmer’s daughter, showcasing her supple olive skin and natural glow. The shepherd king of Israel had cherished his earthy queen. Abba David had shared a special bond with Ima, and Solomon hoped to one day enjoy a love with a woman just as rare.

Gliding up the three-stepped dais, the queen mother met him on the platform and touched her forehead to his hand—a sign of obeisance to her new king. “Solomon, my son,” she whispered, “I have seen the burden of Israel weigh heavy on your shoulders—just as I saw it press down on your abba.”

He wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s all right, Ima. Benaiah is a good friend. He’ll help me.” The revelation of her humanity was startling. He’d been consumed with his loss and fears about ruling this nation. What about her feelings? He rubbed his thumb over the soft skin on her hand. “Don’t shed tears for me, Ima. I’m not a child anymore. I am the king of Israel. You can’t rush in and kiss my skinned knees.”

Before he realized what she was doing, she pulled her hand from his grasp and knelt before him.

“No, Ima! What are—Ima, stand up!” He had never seen her bow to Abba, and she would certainly never bow to him!

But as he reached for her elbow, she gently refused his efforts. A tender smile framed her words. “I know better than anyone that you are the king of Israel. But first and foremost”—her chin quivered—“you are my son. And I will always help you if I see a way to be useful.”

Solomon didn’t know whether to chuckle, cry, or hug her. The determined set of her jaw, the sparkle in her eye—yes, this was the headstrong ima he knew. She’d spent her life making decisions for him and then ensuring those in power followed through. Truly, if Ima and Nathan hadn’t responded so quickly to Adonijah’s coup, Solomon would have lost the throne while Abba lay dying. She had gained his respect long ago. Today she deserved his honor.

Bending to help her stand, Solomon lifted his voice. “Ahishar, bring Abba David’s throne from my chamber for the queen mother.” An excited flutter rolled over the crowd, and the high steward issued orders to four hulking servants.

“Solomon, what are you doing?” Bathsheba’s cheeks pinked. “I don’t want to sit beside—”

He silenced her with a smile and a single finger to her lips. “Please, Ima. You will sit beside me today as I fulfill Abba’s last wishes.” Understanding dawned on her face, and she reached up to brush his cheek. The affectionate act heightened the crowd’s hum. Such a public display would provide market gossip for weeks.

They waited in amiable silence until the servants arrived with the throne and Bathsheba took her place of honor at Solomon’s right hand. Glancing up at Benaiah, Solomon saw his reassuring nod and knew the time had come to deal with Joab and Shimei.
Lord, give me wisdom
, he prayed.

Drawing a breath for his first judgment, Solomon nearly choked when Bathsheba leaned over and whispered, “My son, I have one small request before you begin your proceedings. Do not refuse me.”

Heart pounding, Solomon offered a sideways glance. She was full of surprises today. “Make it, Ima. I will not refuse you.”

Offering no preamble or conditions, she spoke clearly for the audience to hear. “Let Abishag the Shulammite be given in marriage to your brother Adonijah.”

Solomon felt as if he’d taken a blow. His face stung as if he’d walked through a swarm of bees. “What?” he roared. “Why would you request Abishag for Adonijah, Ima?”

The warm rumble of the crowd died to cold silence.

“You might as well give my older brother the throne! Have you joined Abiathar the priest and Joab the general in their efforts to give him the kingdom?” He stood, towering over her, panting with rage as if he’d run a long race.

Bathsheba stared at him in silence, her face white with fear. He’d never spoken to Ima with such fury. He’d never spoken to
anyone
with such fury.

Turning to the stunned crowd, he trembled with unspent anger. “May God deal with me severely if Adonijah doesn’t pay with his life for making this request. Benaiah!” he shouted over the crowd, and his captain descended the platform and bowed before him. “Adonijah must die today for his treachery. He has deceived the queen mother and threatened my throne.”

“Yes, my lord. It will be as you say.”

His captain turned, but Solomon halted him. “We are not finished here, Benaiah.” Exchanging a knowing glance with Solomon, the captain signaled his elite guards to join him at the king’s feet. The captain knew of Joab and Shimei, but there was another Solomon must deal with now.

“You, Abiathar!” The king turned his ire on the traitorous priest seated among his advisors just a few cubits from the throne. “It was you and Joab who conspired with Adonijah to steal my throne when Abba lay dying. I suspect you have a hand in this new treachery—”

“No, my lord! No!” The old priest stood, his eyes as round as horses’ hooves. “I’m not. I mean we did, but no more—”

“Silence!” Solomon shouted. “You are no longer an advisor to the king or a priest before the sovereign Lord. Go back to your fields in Anathoth. You deserve to die, but because you shared in my abba’s hardships, I will spare your life.” The old man’s shoulders slumped, but he knew better than to speak. One of Benaiah’s guards stepped forward, seized his brittle arm, and escorted him from the throne hall.

Every eye followed the old priest’s progress, but Solomon remembered Benaiah’s charge from the night before.
They are your people now, my lord. They will remember the things of which you remind them.

“Elihoreph!” Solomon shouted. His chief secretary nearly jumped from his cushioned couch. “Record in the annals of the king, ‘Concerning Joab, son of Zeruiah and commander of Israel’s hosts, he will die today for his sins against Abner son of Ner and Amasa son of Jether, whom he killed in peacetime.” He paused slightly, giving the secretary time to scribble.