The Secret Chord (17 page)

David dropped his head for a moment and covered his eyes with a hand. He spoke quietly, so that only I could hear him. “Should Avner have died the death of a churl?” He crouched down beside the body, and took the shattered head between his hands. A clear yellow liquid spilled between his fingers, but he did not seem to mark it. “Look at you,” he said to the corpse. “Your feet were not put in fetters, your hands were unbound. Yet you fell as one falls before treachery and betrayal.”

He stood up, gathering the fabric of his tunic where he had accidentally torn it, and making a show of the rending. He had done a good job of working himself up. There was real grief, as well as
wrath, in his eyes. He raised his voice. “Tear your garments! This man is a general of Israel. Pay him his due.” He turned then to the men of the watch, standing, heads down, eyes averted. “Have Yoav brought here, and tell him he comes in sackcloth!” The soldiers looked at one another, and then at their feet. Not one of them, it seemed, wished to bring this message to his general. “Do it!” David cried. “Now!”

I leaned in closer. “Let me go. Better me.”

David turned to me sharply, glaring. He might have accepted the fact that he, too, bore responsibility for this outcome, but he still brimmed with rage that I had not foreseen it. “Go, then.” He pushed me, hard, almost a blow. “Be a messenger. That's at least a service you
can
perform.”

Yoav was sitting in his quarters in the soldiers' barracks, Avishai standing behind him. He was still in his military dress.

“For the love of your life, Yoav, get out of that blood-stained tunic. David wants you.”

He did not move. “Get up! Do you not hear me?”

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “Why should I bestir myself to rush toward my execution?”

“Yoav,” I said. “He does not intend to kill you. But do not press him. Put on penitent dress and get you to the gate.” Yoav gazed at me, his eyes glassy, his body sagging, inert.

“Do it, man, if you want to live.”

Avishai laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Trust Natan. Do as he says.” Yoav looked up at his brother, and then stood, moving in a daze. Avishai took his arm and steered him toward the stores, where some kind of rough sacking could be found to serve as penitent garb.

Not long after, Yoav emerged from the barracks, clad in a loincloth and shawl torn hastily from a grain bag. As he made his way through the parting crowd, David stared at that battle-scarred, hairy
body with a look that flayed. Then he turned his back on him and addressed the crowd.

“Know that a prince, a great man of Israel, is fallen this day. And today I am weak, even I, an anointed king. These sons of my sister Zeruiah are too savage for me. May they be requited for their wickedness.”

He turned back to Yoav and pointed at the ground. “Lie down in the dirt and lament for Avner, son of Ner.” Yoav slowly sank to his knees. He paused for a moment. I could tell it was costing him—he, a general, kinsman to the king. But the will to live is stronger even than pride. He lowered his face into the dust at David's feet.

David's countenance was flushed, his mouth a thin line. His pupils were huge and black, even in the brightness of the morning sun. He took a running step forward and kicked Yoav, hard, in the ribs. Yoav suppressed a grunt of pain. He raised his arms, instinctively, to protect his head.

“You and your house bear the guilt of this. May your house never be without one who suffers.” He kicked him again. “May murderers hunt down your kin. May your offspring know hunger.” It was a heavy curse, and Yoav writhed on the ground as the words and blows landed. But as the assault ended, I saw some tension leave his body. Words and kicks were one thing, the executioner's sword another. As the king released his rage in this torrent of cursing, Yoav withdrew his arms from around his head. He realized, as no further physical blows fell, that I had spoken truly, and that the king would let him live.

•   •   •

In the confusion of that day, David had no thought to spare for Mikhal. That evening, I belatedly remembered to inquire after her. The master of the household told me that David had made no particular provision for her, but that Avigail had sent her own attendants to see to her comfort. I went then to see how she did. But though the servant who opened the door was full of apologies, she would not admit me. “Mikhal says she is unwell, and wants to rest.” When I
turned to go, the girl, whom I knew to be quick-witted, put out a hand as if to restrain me, then quickly drew it back. “My lord, she eats nothing. She barely sips water. We—my mistress and I—we fear for her.”

“Do you so? You do well to confide in me.” I went then directly to Avigail. Between us, there was no need for small talk. The moment we were alone, she poured out her thoughts. “I know what you're going to say, Natan. Why did I press for this? Truly, I am asking myself the same question. Will you believe me if I tell you I did it for her?”

I must have looked doubtful. She was up, and pacing. She was round-bellied with the child she carried, and yet she was drawn in the face. I noticed that save for the thickness at her waist, she was very thin. The wasting disease already had its hand upon her. She winced as she paced. For an instant, a sharp pain stabbed between my eyes, and I saw her—laid out upon a bier, David holding her fleshless hand, a small boy weeping in the corner. It was the apparition of a moment. When I blinked it was gone. But I knew it for a true vision. A shard of grief pierced me. She was my confidante and my friend. “Sit,” I said. I poured wine and handed her the cup. She drained it like a man, in one thirsty swallow, and held the cup out for more.

“Is the pain so bad as that?” I asked quietly.

“Sometimes. When I'm tired. At night it's worse.”

“Avigail—”

She waved a hand, as if to dismiss the subject. “Don't. At my age, to be with child is a blessing. More than that. It is a miracle. I thought—because of Navaal, five years married and no child—I thought I was barren.” She ran a hand over her swollen stomach. “I just want to live long enough to give life, that is all.” She hadn't asked directly, but I heard the question hovering in the silence.

“You will,” I said. “And beyond. Long enough for your son to know you.”

She smiled. “A son? Good. And I will live to see him. Then that is more than I had hoped. I am satisfied. I can bear anything now . . .”
She took another gulp of the wine, and gathered herself. “Natan, I'm glad you came, and not just for these sustaining words. I have been asking myself what I have done, what I can do, for Mikhal, now that she's here. I made a mistake. I truly thought she would want this. Yes, yes, I thought it would be good for David, for his house, to restore the link with Shaul, to silence future claims from that direction. But I also thought she was like me.

“I despised my husband Navaal. I despised his drunkenness and his folly, long before I ever saw David. But after . . . after I'd seen David—Natan, he looked beautiful that day, when I met him on the road. He was dressed for battle, the hair bound back, skin oiled. And angry—you know how he is, in anger. I could feel it. Feel the heat of it coming off him. The sense of purpose in him, the coil of it, how tightly he held himself in, but how ferocious he might be, unleashed. The self-command. And then, the way he softened to me, when he understood what I was doing. His kindness and his blessing as he sent me home. Home. Home to that stinking ass who had almost had us all killed. I had to go back to my house and sit with Navaal and endure one of his drunken feasts. Had to look at him, his beard crusty with food, wine and spittle staining his tunic. Had to listen to his foul, stupid jokes and watch him put his greasy hands all over the serving women. Listen to him boast that he'd stood up to the ragtag outlaws, knowing that if it weren't for me he'd be dead in his own blood. And wishing, in my heart, that he
was
dead.

“The next day, when he'd sobered up, I went to him and told him. Told him what I'd done, and what a fool he was. He got up, and staggered to the bowl and vomited. You know how violently a drunk vomits—his eyes were bloody when he'd done. And then he fell in a fit. They say I caused it with my words. It's not true. He caused it. He'd ruined his body. I am sure he would have had the selfsame fit that day from his excess whether I'd spoken truth to him or no.

“But I was glad. And gladder still when day following day, he did not wake up. Then, on the tenth day, he died, leaving David free
to ask for me. I had to keep my countenance when they came to inquire whether I would or no. But the moment I was in private, I danced around my room for the joy of it. Truly, Natan, I thought Mikhal would feel the same way. How was I to know that she loved this man Palti?” She rubbed her hands over her face. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Be kind to her, as you have been. You and I both know that David has a great gift for inspiring love. He had hers, once. He will know how to win her again, I am sure of it.”

And I was sure of it then. But sure as a man is sure. Which is to say, as likely to be wrong as right. Avigail chose to think I meant sure in that other way, and took comfort in my words, which was something. I cared for her and I didn't want her to punish herself. Not in the short time I knew she had left to her.

•   •   •

Word of Avner's death traveled quickly to his stronghold in Mahanaim. As David had predicted, everyone there assumed his hand was behind it. Shaul's son Ish Boshet, sure that he was next marked for death, took to his bed, paralyzed by fear. Two of David's company commanders, supposing Ish Boshet's assessment correct, decided to do David that service, thinking to ingratiate themselves with him. They broke into Ish Boshet's room and stabbed him to death. It did not take the two killers long to find they had misjudged matters. When they arrived at Hevron with Ish Boshet's head in a bloody bag, David had their hands and feet cut off, and hanged them by the pool of Hevron. I went with him to inspect the bleeding corpses, swinging from the scaffold. David looked up at them, his face blank. “Now, maybe,” he said, “the people will understand that I want this killing between the tribes to stop and be done with.”

Maybe, I thought to myself. And maybe they'll understand that you show no mercy to king slayers, even if the king is your enemy, as Shaul was, or a powerless puppet like Ish Boshet. But whatever the people might be brought to accept, I knew that once again, a murder
had been done, and once again, the results only furthered David's ambitions. And perhaps some others also would see this coincidence, and find it suspect.

Whatever whispers passed in private, the public reaction was just as David wanted. In the next week, envoys came from each tribe of Israel, even from Avner's Benyaminites. There were parlays, and at each, much recollecting of the times before David's rift with Shaul, when he had led them so successfully in battle.

Sometime during all of this statecraft, David finally remembered Mikhal. “I suppose I should call upon her,” he said, after a roomful of envoys had departed. “Come with me. We'll go now and see to it.” His tone was of a man addressing a chore. I wondered at it. As full of vital matters as his days had been, I thought that curiosity—if not desire, if not plain kindness—might have led him to a greater zeal.

We found her sitting by the window in her apartment, gazing out into the square below. She was clad in the plainest of gray robes, her hair bound back beneath a severely tied head scarf. When she turned her face to us, even the drabness of her attire could not deaden her beauty. She was gaunt—I learned later that she'd eaten little in the two weeks that had passed since her arrival. But the hollows beneath her cheeks and the gray of her robe only served to emphasize the beauty of her eyes. I saw the tension go out of David's body and a wide smile light his face. Sensualist, I thought. He means to get an heir on her, and he's relieved she's not become a crone. But no such relief or joy animated her face. Indeed, she barely registered that we'd entered the room. David strode toward her, uttering words of welcome and extending his hand. Her own remained resolutely folded in her lap. If he noticed this, he did not falter, but reached down and grasped her shoulders, gently lifting her until they stood, eye to eye—she was very tall. Then he embraced her. Her body did not answer his, but seemed to shrink and stiffen. Standing behind him, I saw what he could not: her eyes, blank and opaque, staring unblinkingly into the distance. Her face cold, expressionless.

He disengaged from the embrace, still holding her shoulders, murmuring polite platitudes and questions as to how she did and whether she had all she needed. She remained passive in his arms, but as soon as he released his grip she immediately sat again, her gaze trained upon the floor. He fingered the coarse weave of her robe. “This won't do,” he said. “I will see to it that some silks and linens are sent. You must choose what you would like. My new wife, Maacah—have you met her yet? Perhaps not . . . She is daughter to the king of Geshur and so has her own household outside the palace. Political marriage—you know how it is . . .” A flush had crept up his neck and was brightening his cheeks. He was perhaps aware this wasn't the best conversational gambit. I had rarely seen him clumsy in this way. I realized then that Mikhal's lack of response was unnerving him. “In any case, she brought a skillful seamstress with her. Very fine work. I will see to it that she's put at your disposal.”

David's stream of talk stuttered to an awkward invitation to attend the evening's feast in honor of the latest emissaries. Still, she said nothing. And as we backed out of her apartment, she did not offer a farewell.

In the hallway, David shrugged. “We have time,” he said. “Once all this—” He waved an arm. “Once things are settled . . .”