Copyright (c) 2003 Theodore Beale.
All rights reserved.
The heat of the midsummer sun beat down mercilessly on the summit of a verdant hill. A gentle breeze caused the blades of grass to sway, and gave a little relief to the hilltop’s lone occupant, a teenage boy. The mountains to the east were drenched with gold, as sunlight crowned their rocky crags like a fiery blessing from the heavens. To the west, the hills of Shephelah rose from the plains, humble echoes of their great eastern neighbors. The sky was a serene wash of blue, inviolate but for two hawks a-hunting. They soared high overhead, wings almost motionless as they rode the winds.
Standing on the summit was a young man, who looked up
wistfully at the hawks as he squinted his eyes against the brightness of the
day. How tranquil they seemed, and so
careless of the burning heat. And then,
they had a better vantage point from which to view the glorious wonders of the
Lord God Almighty’s creation, not to mention the humbler task with which he was
charged. For if the sky was free of
white interlopers, the surrounding slopes were not. The grassy sides of the hill on which the watcher sat, and those
of the hills nearby, were dotted with sheep, one hundred and forty in all, and
the sound of their happy bleating was a familiar and reassuring cacophony.
A droplet of sweat trickled down from his hairline, and
the young shepherd flicked it away with his hand, unnoticing. He wished for a tree that might provide him
with shade, for he was the fairest of all his family and a day such as this,
however beautiful, was bound leave its mark upon his face. He envied Shamah, whose skin was so dark
that he could spend the entire summer basking in the sun’s scorching rays
without ill effect. The same sun that
caused him to burn and blister only heightened his brother’s deep bronze until
it was like that of a well-burnished sword.
The thought of a sword made him sigh longingly. One day he would be a warrior, just like his
brothers, and fight in the armies of Israel.
He was sure of it. Eliab, Obed,
and Shamah had all been at Telaim, where the Lord had delivered the entire
Amalekite army, including their treacherous king, into Israel’s hands. Their vibrant tales of heroism had fired his
imagination, and he had pestered them for hours, until even Eliab, who never
tired of boasting of his exploits, ran out of stories to tell.
Best of all, though, were the accounts they told of
Israel’s great and mighty king, the chosen and anointed of the Lord God
Almighty, King Saul, who stood even taller than Eliab and had defeated Israel’s
enemies on every side. Moabites,
Ammonites, Edomites, and even the powerful Philistines had fallen before Israel’s
Great Lion. The Philistines refused to
recognize Israel or her king, and they did their best to pretend they still
ruled over the people of God, but after six years of successful revolt, even a
humble shepherd boy knew better.
We were slaves in Egypt, but we will never be slaves
again! The young man drew the stick he
always carried from his belt and parried a blow from an imaginary foe. He blocked another thrust, and then a third,
before whipping his makeshift weapon around in a thunderous blow aimed at a gap
in his invisible opponent’s armor. As
the vanquished enemy tumbled unseen to the ground, the young man raised his
fanciful sword to the skies and saluted the architect of his victory.
“The Lord Almighty is with us!” he cried exultantly,
startling the nearest sheep, who looked up at him in alarm.
Their noisy protests shook him out of his warlike
reverie, and suddenly embarrassed, he glanced about to see if anyone had been
witness to his foolishness.
Fortunately, there was no one in sight but the sheep, although one large
ewe was eyeing him in what he fancied was a suspicious manner. She stared reproachfully at him for a moment
longer, then returned her attention to the grass under her nose.
He sighed, more deeply this time, and as was his habit,
again began to count his father’s flock.
One… two… three….
…one hundred twenty six… one hundred twenty–
“David!”
He heard someone shouting at him, but he did his best to
ignore it and continue with his count.
One hundred twenty seven… one hundred twenty eight…. David glanced back and forth between a ewe
and its lamb, trying to remember if he’d already counted them both or not.
“David? Oh, there
you are. David!”
Growling low in his throat, David held up his hand in the
general direction of the intruder and grimly began a recount. Only when he had once again confirmed that
all one hundred and forty of his father’s sheep were safely accounted for did
he turn his attention to his brother.
Obed was not his favorite brother; it was Shamah, who, with his flashing
white teeth and ready smile, was never too busy to play with the youngest
member of the family. But Obed wasn’t a
bragging, strutting bully like Eliab either, he was just there, one of the
crowd.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’re to go to our father’s house, at once.” Obed wasn’t breathing hard, at least not
now, but he was sweating heavily. He
had obviously run all the way from home.
“I’ll watch the sheep.”
“You?” David was
suspicious. Watching the sheep was the
most tedious of the many chores that needed to be done around the household,
which was why, being the youngest, it always fell to him. His brother wouldn’t have hurried out here
if there wasn’t something else afoot.
And Obed didn’t sound nearly irritated enough at having to take his
place. “Why?”
“Because Samuel is at our father’s house! He wants to see you!”
“Samuel?” David’s
eyes widened and his voice squeaked.
“But I told him, I didn’t break the water jar! I didn’t!”
“What?” Obed exclaimed, thrown temporarily for a
loss. Then he laughed. “No, not Samuel ben Eleazar, Samuel, the
prophet Samuel, raka!”
“Samuel?” David
was at a loss for words. “The prophet?”
Obed grinned, enjoying his younger brother’s stunned
reaction.
“The prophet of Israel,” he confirmed knowingly. “He arrived this morning, and invited our
father to assist him in a sacrifice to the Lord. They sacrificed a heifer, one that Samuel had brought with
him. He allowed us to witness it, and
he consecrated all of us too, with his own hands!”
David was envious, and disappointed to have missed the
sacrifice. A heifer! Who could imagine such a thing? The most he’d ever offered up to the Lord
God was a dove, and a ram was the best sacrifice he’d seen his father
make. Then he recalled Obed’s first
words.
“You said he wanted to see me?”
Obed nodded, looking perplexed.
“Yes, after the sacrifice, father told each of us to walk
before him, starting with Eliab. I
don’t know what Samuel wanted, but he is very old now, so maybe he is in need
of an acolyte. I heard him ask father
if the seven of us were all the sons he had, and when father said that you were
out here, Samuel told him to send for you.”
“Then I should go, now!
Here, take this.”
David handed his stick to Obed, who had forgotten to
bring one, and began to run down the west side of the hill, slowly at first, in
order to avoid startling the sheep.
“David!” he heard his brother call out to him. “Why are you going that way? You’ll have to cross the stream, and
besides, it’s faster if you take the southern pass!”
“I know!” David shouted back over his shoulder. But even so, he continued on his way,
picking up speed as he left the sheep behind him.
As he ran, the young shepherd was filled with equal parts
excitement and dread. It was thrilling
to think that he would soon be face to face with the Lord’s great prophet, the
man who had crowned the Great Lion with his own hands. But as much as he desired to serve the Lord
God Almighty, David did not want to be an assistant to any priest, however
great; he was no Levite and his dreams were of swords, not sacrificial altars.
But what would come would be as the Lord Almighty willed
it. Of that, David was confident. And though he was young, there was a second
thing of which he was also sure. His
mother had taught him strictly, but well, and he knew that even when summoned,
one simply could not appear before the holy prophet of the Lord God Almighty
while stinking of sweat and sheep.
His feet barely touched the grass as he ran up, over, and
around the undulating hills, heading for the cool running waters of Beth Kadim.
Chapter One
The surrounding soldiers cheered as the king’s son lifted
his round shield in a casual salute, and acknowledged his opponent’s response
with an ironic grin. Jonathan could
remember when makeshift weapons carved of wood like the club he was holding
were the best that Israel could provide its soldiers, and in some ways, the
rude cudgel still felt more comfortable in his hand than did the iron-edged
sword belted to his side.
His opponent was shorter than him by more than a head,
but he was well-muscled, and his powerful arms were corded with sinew. An Asherite, he was of good repute, and it
was reliably reported that he had killed fifteen Zobahites at Ramoth
Gilead. The man’s deep-set eyes were
wary but without fear, Jonathan noted with approval as he lightly swayed from
side-to-side on the balls of his feet.
In contrast with his own motion, the Asherite seemed to be rooted to the
ground as firmly as a cedar of Lebanon.
He looked to have all the mobility of a tortoise.
He thinks to
deceive me. But he cannot be as slow as
he looks!
It was only the fastest fighters who tried to make others
think they were slow, and Jonathan realized his opponent must be hoping to use
speed to defeat his own greater reach.
So the ugly little man was resourceful, and clever enough to disguise
his intentions too.
Ah, but he betrays
himself. He is too eager for the
counter. See how his weapon dances in
his hand like a lion’s tail lashing, while his shield, unminded, dips…
there! He thinks only of attack, not
defense, and that is his weakness.
Knowing that the other man was waiting for his first
move, Jonathan stepped forward heavily, almost clumsily, and raised his club
high over his helmeted head. As he
anticipated, the Asherite reacted with the speed of a desert adder, slashing at
the open space just above Jonathan’s bronze shield. The opening was real, but it was also a trap, because Jonathan
was already bringing his weapon down hard across his body. The blow landed upon the back of the man’s
sword arm with a great thwack, and the Asherite cried out involuntarily as his
weapon fell to the sand. The watching
men cheered loudly, and Jonathan smiled, raising his club in acknowledgement,
though his eyes never left his weaponless opponent.
A spasm of fury flashed over the Asherite’s face, and for
one worrisome moment, Jonathan thought the man would lose his temper and hurl
his shield at him. But it was only the
instinctive reaction of a combative fighter, and when the man’s anger subsided
an instant later, giving way to a rueful smile, Jonathan tossed his own weapon
to the side and removed his helmet. The
bout had been so brief that he hadn’t even managed to work up a sweat.
“I don’t think the King will be wanting me for his men,”
the Asherite declared, his face reddening with shame as the crowd of watching
soldiers jeered his rapid defeat.
The man had traveled a long way to reach the royal camp,
and with this failure, his dream of joining the King’s elite guard had been
shattered with a single blow. Jonathan
could see the humiliation in the other’s eyes, and his heart went out to the
beaten fighter. But he nodded in
agreement nevertheless, for this little man could never hope to serve his
father.
His father, the King, was of a singular height, and the
men of his bodyguard were expected to be likewise tall. The King’s Lions were widely considered to
be the finest warriors in the twelve tribes, and to a man, they were
giants. While a handsome face was not
exactly a prerequisite, it didn’t hurt either.
But in this regard, too, the postulant was sorely lacking.
Jonathan shrugged as he remembered the cliffs of
Micmash. No one knew better than he
that it took a special breed of warrior to slay fifteen enemies in a single
battle. That glorious morning on the
cliffs, with none to aid him but his shield-bearer, had he not killed twenty
Philistines through the favor of the Lord?
“No, I’m afraid you won’t do for my father’s men. For one thing, you’re too short. As to the other,” Jonathan grinned, “well,
you’ll be serving in mine. If you’re
willing.”
That silenced the mockers, he noted with satisfaction. The Asherite himself was struck speechless,
too. But Jonathan had not been moved by
pity, only by self-interest. The little
man’s speed was truly impressive, and in these perilous times, surrounded as
they were by enemies on every side, a prince of Israel needed men around him
who would strike first and only later stop to think of the consequences.
“What’s your father’s name, Tahan?”
“His name is Guni,” the Asherite told him. The little man dropped to his knees. “I would be honored to be your man, Prince
Jonathan!”
“Will you defend me and mine, even at the cost of your
own life?” Jonathan stared Tahan
directly in the eyes, and was pleased to see that the Asherite did not flinch
or look away.
“As surely as the Lord lives, Prince Jonathan!”
“Then serve me bravely, Tahan ben Guni, and well.”
Jonathan reached out and pulled his new guardsman to his
feet. Placing a companionable arm
around the other, he scanned the crowd for a familiar face.
“Aro!” he called out to the captain of his men. “I have a new one for you.”
“I know, I saw,” Arodi ben Eli replied without noticeable
enthusiasm. He was old enough to be
Jonathan’s father, he was older than the King, in fact, and even now had a
tendency to regard his royal charge as a callow youth whose behavior bordered
perilously close to foolishness. But he
slapped Tahan on the shoulder in a friendly manner, and pointed out a crimson
banner that floated from the top of a large tent near the center of the
camp.
“Come with me.
I’m Arodi ben Eli, the captain of the prince’s men, and I’ll introduce
you to the others. Is your sword iron,
or bronze?”
“Iron,” Tahan nodded quickly. “I have three. And an
iron-tipped spear as well.”
Arodi glanced back at Jonathan and lifted a graying
eyebrow. Jonathan grinned back at the
old sourpuss. Take that, my skeptical friend.
I know what I’m doing.
“All right, then,” his captain said with begrudging
respect. “Well, ben Guni, I saw what
happened there, and I can tell you that the first thing you’ll have to learn
that speed isn’t the only thing ….”
Arodi led the new guardsman through the rapidly
dispersing crowd, and his voice trailed off as the two men moved out of
earshot. Feeling not only victorious,
but vindicated, Jonathan looked around to see if anyone of interest had
witnessed his triumph. He was filled
with no small sense of pleasure with himself.
His eyes narrowed, though, and his smile vanished when he saw three tall
men wearing black-and-yellow sashes over their robes walking towards him.
“Jonathan, your father wants you,” the man in the center
announced loudly. “In his tent, now!”
Jonathan stifled a curse and refused to rise to the
bait. He would not normally brook that
tone of voice from anyone, but unlike his new bodyguard he could recognize when
a trap had been laid. Abiel was easily
the most insufferable of all the king’s Lions, but he was also the nephew of
Abner, the commander of the armies of Israel.
Even worse, he was family, of a sort, and proudly bore the name of his
great-grandfather, who unfortunately happened to be Jonathan’s
great-grandfather as well.
Abiel seemed to enjoy setting himself up in opposition to
Jonathan, as if the conflict he created made him a man of import instead of a
mere gadfly. While the very sight of
Abiel’s arrogant, black-bearded face was enough to cause Jonathan’s fists to
clench, he had learned over the years that he was simply not quick enough to
match wits with his cousin, and that his most effective tactic was to simply
ignore the other’s petty gibes.
Deprived of an excuse to create the scene he craved, Abiel always
slithered away quietly to await the next inopportune time.
One day, you’ll go too far, cousin. But I hope you’ll wait until I am king. Because when you do, I’ll send you on a
one-man invasion of Ashkelon, as surely as the Lord who rescues Israel lives!
“Hello, cousin.”
Jonathan betrayed no sign of his contempt for Abiel, not even a hint of
his irritation at the other’s poor manners.
“Perhaps you might enlighten me with regards to the wishes of my father
the King?”
Abiel wasn’t fooled by his polite response. He knew well where he stood in Jonathan’s
eyes, and perversely, he gloried in it.
A faint spark of amusement lit his face, as if he knew that he had
scored despite Jonathan’s best efforts to conceal it from him.
“The King does not make a practice of confiding in me,
dear cousin. But I have no doubt that
he’ll tell you what he wants when you get there, so you’d better run along.”
Abiel’s tone was not unlike that of a man with many
flocks addressing his youngest, most ignorant shepherd. Jonathan forced himself to smile, but behind
his upturned lips he was gritting his teeth.
“Thank you, cousin.”
He turned his back and was walking away swiftly, congratulating
himself on maintaining his composure, when he heard Abiel address his fellow
Lions in a voice that was full of scorn and meant to be overheard.
“He’ll never wear the crown, you know. Oh, he can fight, but he doesn’t have the
brains that the Lord gave a lizard. If
he ever becomes king, I have no doubt that the people who cried out for my
uncle will soon be begging for a return to the days of the judges!”
Despite an overwhelming urge to turn around and bury his
sword to the hilt in his cousin’s hairy chest, Jonathan resolutely kept his
mouth closed as he walked towards the great royal tent and pretended that he
had heard nothing. Along the way, he
consoled himself with images of Abiel chained, as mighty Sampson had once been
chained, in the temple of Dagon. The
vision of his cousin crushed under a pile of rubble made for a most satisfying
picture.
By the time the two Lions stationed outside the King’s
tent were bowing to him and bidding him enter, Jonathan was smiling again. His good humor was short-lived, though, when
he saw that the tent’s vast interior was lit by only a pair of guttering
candles. The darkness inside was
mirrored by the expression on his father’s face, which looked like nothing so
much as a cloud waiting to erupt with thunder.
What have I done? Surely
he’s not displeased with me!
Jonathan racked his brain to come up with anything that
might have caused the king’s anger, but he could think of nothing. Only ten days ago, the Lord had blessed the
army with two great victories over the Amalekites, and Agag, the treacherous
king who had long been a thorn in Israel’s side, was no more.
The Amalekite army had been
destroyed, slaughtered to a man, and the threat they posed the tribes since the
days of Moses was eliminated once and for all.
Why, then, was his father so unhappy?
He studied his father’s stony face, searching for
clues. Saul was still a handsome man,
but the years of kingship had hardened him, and the deep wrinkles around his
dark, brooding eyes were like dried streambeds worn from bedrock. His black beard was cropped close and
liberally salted with gray, as was the hair on his head. He wore a simple linen robe, adorned only by
two winestains down the front. Of signs
of his kingship, there were none to be found save the great golden goblet which
he had taken from Agag, and from which he was now drinking.
“I came at once, father.” Jonathan bowed respectfully.
“What is your pleasure?”
Saul acted as if he had not heard the question. He gestured to a young boy attempting to
play a harp in the corner.
“Leave off your cursed abuse of that instrument and fetch
the prince a goblet. Yes, of course I
want wine in it, what else would I need it for?” The king lifted the goblet in a salute to his son, then slugged
back a hefty draught. “Drink with me,
eh?”
Jonathan blinked and kept a blank look on his face. He was worried, though. His father was occasionally prone to
moodiness, but he seldom got drunk before nightfall, and certainly never
alone. Something is definitely wrong, but if it’s not me… I wonder what it is?
“Of course, father,” he said as cheerfully as he could
manage, and dutifully accepted the proffered chalice. It was crudely worked, but bejeweled with four large rubies and a
number of smaller, less precious stones.
Ammonite work, he guessed.
Another trophy of war.
“May all of my father the king’s enemies be as King
Agag,” he proposed before drinking. But
his reference to the recently deceased did not bring the anticipated smile to
Saul’s face.
“I rid myself of one enemy and another springs up to take
his place,” he replied bitterly. He
indicated a loosely rolled scroll on a nearby table. “What do you think about taking another wife?”
“I don’t, that is, I haven’t,” Jonathan answered truthfully.
He was pleased with Serah, the soft-voiced Simeonite he’d
married six years ago, not long before his father was anointed king over Israel
by the prophet. But with the
never-ending struggle against their former masters, Jonathan didn’t get to see
her nearly as often as he would have liked.
So how would it make sense to take a second wife when you didn’t have
enough time for the one you already had?
“I want you to consider it. The King of the Arameans is offering his daughter in return for
an alliance against the Philistines. He
needs ten thousand men this summer, and in return, he promises thirty thousand
if the Philistines should invade us next year.” Saul paused and took another copious drink. “Or, when they invade us next year, I should
say.”
“Only ten thousand?
Why so few?”
“He’s intending to take back Berothai, then establish a
new border at the Litani. The garrison
isn't very large, so taking the city won’t be a problem with our help. But he needs our men to hold it for him
while he engages the main Philistine army on the west side of the river.”
“It’s a reasonable plan, and I suppose it would keep them
off our backs for the rest of the summer.”
Jonathan cocked an eyebrow. “So,
what does this daughter look like?”
Saul’s expression lightened for the first time since his
son had entered the tent. He glanced at
a man seated comfortably in the gloom of the far corner, sprawled amidst a
thick pile of embroidered pillows, and pointed to a stack of papyrus scrolls
piled haphazardly on the scribe’s table.
“Ziba, read me that Aramean scroll again. Just the part about the girl.”
Saul’s chief steward, who did double duty as his scribe,
bowed deeply and cleared his throat.
Despite the poor lighting, he found his place without trouble and began
reading in a rich, mellifluous voice.
“Weep, ye daughters of Damascus, before the beauty of thy
sister. Who is like the king’s
daughter, more fair than the moon, as stately as the stars of night? Darker than ravens is her hair, blacker than
midnight’s shadow, like unto a great herd of goats descending Mount
Hermon. Her breasts are like the
mountains of Galilee, as majestic as the cedars of Lebanon. Her lips are sweet; like honey are her lips,
and her breath has the fragrance of mandrakes.
Like doves cooing is her voice, and her eyes are two fauns drinking from
the waters of the Litani, the pure waters of the Litani, as it flows to the
sea….”
Ziba halted his reading.
“And so forth, in much the same vein. I can continue if you like. The missive goes on for some length about
the strength of her loins, her unsullied virtue, and how her offspring will be
like lions. Not a bad touch, that last
little bit, considering to whom he’s writing.”
“Well, she sounds like a nice girl,” Saul commented thoughtfully. “What do you say?”
“She sounds lovely,” Jonathan shrugged. “The mountains of Galilee, hmmm…. I suppose the real question is, what does
Samuel say?”
Ziba winced and wisely retreated to his shadowy corner as
the king’s face turned an apoplectic shade of red. Jonathan, less fortunate, was forced to remain in his place and
absorb the full force of his father’s rage.
Clearly, he had said something amiss.
“What does Samuel say?
What does Samuel say?” The Great
Lion was truly an appropriate name for his father, Jonathan found himself
thinking. He could certainly roar like
one. “What in the name of the twelve
fornicating tribes of Israel does Samuel have to do with any of this?”
Jonathan swallowed hard.
He had no desire to answer the question, but he did feel compelled to
remind his father of the truth.
“The Lord God of Israel has not looked favorably on his
people making alliances with the uncircumcised in the past, father. You know that. And Samuel is the prophet of Israel.”
“And I am the king of Israel, chosen and consecrated by
the Lord! Doesn’t that count for
anything?” Saul dashed his goblet to
the earth, spilling the remainder of the wine it was holding about his
feet. “I am sick and tired of hearing
that I cannot relieve my bowels without first asking permission of Samuel! Am I the king or am I not the king?”
“Of course you are, father,” Jonathan inclined his head
meekly at first despite the answering fury that was swelling inside him. It was monstrously unfair that he, of all
people, should be accused of disrespect.
His own anger surged until it suddenly burst forth in a stream of raging
words.
“Why do you shout at me?
When have I done aught but obey you?
Have you already forgotten Havilah?
Have you forgotten how we won the day at Shur? Have you forgotten how the desert was watered with the blood of
Amalekites fallen before your sword?
Were there allies at Gilgal when you first called the army of
Israel? Did you need the aid of the
uncircumcised then, when there were only two swords for six hundred men? And did you not yet triumph, through the
favor of the Lord God Almighty, who upholds you and assures you victory!”
He pointed angrily to the fallen goblet.
“Would you have defeated Agag without the favor of the Lord
God of Israel? Would you have left his
children without a father, his wives without a husband, without the favor of
the living God?”
“I didn’t kill him,” the king muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“I said, I didn’t kill him.” Saul repeated, just a little louder, so that only Jonathan could
hear. His eyes, now devoid of rage,
were haunted. “Samuel did.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened.
He had been with the king at Telaim and with his own ears had heard as
Samuel spoke with the voice of the Almighty, ordering the army of Israel to
annihilate the Amalekite people in vengeance for their treatment of the tribes
during the days of Moses. The slaughter
had sickened him, but he had obeyed, showing no mercy to even the youngest,
most helpless infant. What little he
could do, he had done, ordering his men to kill the mothers first, so they
would not be forced to see their children perish. He had wept, heartsick, even as his sword ran red with the blood
of innocents, but he spared none. And
yet, was it possible that his father had dared to flout the Lord’s command and
spared Agag? Jonathan was
astounded. No, he was more than
astounded; he was aghast.
“Everyone, out,” he hissed, jabbing at the exit. “Leave us, now! You too, Ziba. I would
speak with my father alone!”
His father’s retainers obeyed with alacrity, averting
their eyes from both him and the king as they hastily fled the royal tent. Only when the last of them had gone, and the
heavy tent flaps were closed behind them, did Jonathan look at his father. It was a terrible sight to behold. Saul’s eyes were like black pools of fear,
and his sun-leathered face was downcast with shame. The undefeated victor of a hundred battles, who had triumphed
over his foes to the north, south, east and west, was frightened, Jonathan saw,
but of what, exactly, he did not know.
“What did he say?”
Samuel would have had something to say, he knew it. Jonathan reached out and put a hand on his
father’s shoulder. “What is it that you
fear?”
Saul refused to meet his eyes. He put his face in his hands, and shook his head helplessly.
“We sacrificed the best cattle, and all the best sheep to
the Lord. I thought that would be
enough! The Lord wants sacrifices and I
gave him sacrifices, I gave him burnt offerings, why is that so wrong?”
He stretched his
hand up imploringly towards the roof of the tent.
“Have I not served you well? Have I not slain thousands upon thousands of your enemies? Have I not bathed my sword in the red rivers
of their blood? How can you reject
me? O Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob, do not turn your face from me!”
Jonathan felt fear creeping into his own bowels. Had the Lord rejected his own people? Surely that could not be so! It could never be so!
“What did Samuel tell you? What did he say?”
His father finally looked him in the face, with eyes that
were filled with hurt and betrayal.
“He said that the Lord has rejected me as king over
Israel! He said that the kingdom had
been given to one of my neighbors, to a better man than me!”
Jonathan found himself feeling strangely relieved. It was frightful news, of course, but he had
feared even worse. Without the favor of
the Lord, Israel could not hope to survive the enemies that surrounded it, not
for a single summer. But the prophet’s
words confused him, too. His father was
still king, after all, with not a single rival in sight. He reminded Saul of this.
“Perhaps the Lord has changed his mind,” he
suggested. “Perhaps he has seen how you
repent of your sin against him, and has restored his favor to you. Agag is dead, after all, and are you not
still the king?”
Saul nodded eagerly at his suggestion, grasping at it
with all the fervency of a drowning man clutching at a rope cast into the
water.
“Yes, yes, perhaps that may be so.” He chuckled anxiously, and leaned back on
his throne. “Do you remember when you
first attacked the Philistines, at Geba?
I never told you, but the reason it took me so long to come down from
Gilgal was Samuel. For seven days, I
waited for him, until I could afford to wait no more. The men were leaving– that was why there were only six hundred
men with me, most of them had already left– so I went ahead with the burnt
offerings myself. Samuel finally made
his appearance just after I finished, and he was furious. He even said that my kingdom would not
endure, that if I had only waited for him, the Lord would have established my
kingdom for all time.”
The king sighed regretfully.
“And perhaps I should have waited, but that was what, six
years ago? Certainly, the Lord favored
me on that day and ever since. Have the
armies of Israel ever been defeated with me at their head? If Israel were doomed, if the Lord did not
uphold my crown, then surely I would have fallen by now. It must be that Samuel was only speaking in
anger, and surely that is all it was this time too.” He smiled faintly. “Or
perhaps Gilgal puts him in a foul temper.
One only has to look at his wretched sons to know that even the great
prophet of Israel is not without flaw.”
Saul’s expression grew intense, and he rose from his
throne, reaching out with both hands to grip Jonathan’s shoulders. His breath was sour with wine, but there was
fierce love in his eyes as he punctuated his every word with an emotional
squeeze.
“You will be king over Israel after me, my son. You will be a great king! Pharoah himself shall tremble before you,
and Israel’s enemies will shake at the very mention of your name! As surely as I live, you will be king!”
Jonathan felt the king’s arms enfold him in a powerful,
emotional embrace. He returned the hug
warmly. He was sure of his father’s
love; he was, however, rather less confident in the accuracy of his
predictions. Only ten days ago, they
had unleashed the wrath of the Almighty on a wicked people who had first
offended him generations ago. Time to
the gods was perhaps something different than that reckoned by the men who
worshipped them.
He pulled back from his father and straightened his
shoulders. Perhaps he would be king one
day, or perhaps not. He was a warrior,
after all, and though he had survived a hundred battles, the next might prove
his last. But until that final battle,
he vowed to himself, he would continue to serve both his father and the Lord
God of Israel to the best of his ability, come what may.
Jonathan bowed crisply, honoring his father with the
respect that was his rightful due. Saul
ben Kish was not a perfect man, no one knew that better than the heir to his
throne, but he was a great warrior and a worthy king. Jonathan might be famous throughout all Canaan for his martial
exploits, but the thing of which he was most proud was being the eldest son of
the Great Lion of Israel.
“If the king commands it, I shall willingly take the
Aramean girl to wife,” he promised his father, as he picked up the Amalekite
goblet and returned it to the scribe’s table. “And now I must leave you.”
“Where are you going?” Saul asked, sounding surprised as
Jonathan turned away from him.
“To tell Ziba to find you a new harpist,” he called back
over his shoulder. “You were
right. That boy’s playing is putrid!”
Chapter Two
“I wish you did not have to go,” Serah confessed, as she
brushed a wayward curl away from her glistening eyes. “But I will fast and pray the Lord God grant you victory, and a
safe return home. I would also offer a
burnt offering in sacrifice, if I may have your permission?”
Jonathan smiled at his little wife. He had defeated the Philistines in many a
battle, and he saw no reason to expect anything but another resounding success
this summer. It was true that on this
occasion they would be facing two of the Philistines five great kings for the
first time since the disastrous failure at Aphek, but the army of Israel was
stronger now than it had ever been before.
What had begun as a ragged collection of three thousand untrained rebels
armed only with sticks was now a well-blooded fighting force of twenty thousand
veteran soldiers, and unlike Eli, whose wicked sons had led Israel into that
terrible defeat a generation ago, his father was no cowardly dotard.
“I will tell Jahzeel to give you a young bull, one that
has not been castrated. When I depart,
offer him in thanks for the triumph that the Lord will provide us, as surely as
he lives.”
Serah shook her dark head. She was not a beautiful woman, and was certainly no match for the
stunning Aramean princess he had married last fall at his father’s behest. But she was sweet and she was kind, her lips
were softer than kidskin, and her gentle love was like a warm fire in winter.
“How can you be so sure?
Every time you go to war, I feel as if my blood has turned to ice! When they tell me that the runners have
come, I cannot breathe until I have heard them cry out and I know you have not
fallen. Oh, you cannot know how I dread
that day….”
Unable to complete the thought, she reached out to him
and took his hand. Rising from her
place, she kneeled before him and kissed his palm.
“Promise me that you will come back to me, my lord, my
love. Promise me that you will not die,
that you will return again to me!”
Jonathan’s heart went out to her. She looked so sad, so bereft of faith. He stood and took her into his arms,
effortlessly lifting her off her feet.
She was tiny, so petite, really, she seemed to weigh less than a
yearling lamb. He kissed her on the
forehead.
“I promise,” he told her. “See how strong I am? We
will win, and I will come back safely, to you.”
“But you can’t know that!” she protested. “How can you give me your word?”
Jonathan carefully put her down, and caressed her long,
curly hair. It was so thick it was
almost wooly, and his fingers were soon ensnared. Gently, he disentangled them.
“We will win because the Lord God of our fathers is with
us today.” He smiled grimly. “Also, because those uncircumcised fellows
have not yet learned how to cope with our bowmen.”
Five thousand men, a full quarter of the army, were under
his command and all of them were armed with bows. The Philistines’ chariots might look intimidating, but they were
less potent than their brazen appearance suggested as they raced madly
back-and-forth across the no-man’s land between the front lines, randomly
discharging arrows one at a time, never to any great effect. Whereas the deadly volleys fired en masse by
his archers often ripped huge holes in the enemy lines, disrupting their
formations and creating weak spots that the king’s Lions and the rest of the
Israeli infantry could then exploit.
“We will win,” he repeated his assurance with
confidence. “Now go and wash your face,
and make yourself beautiful for your husband.
There are some things I must do before I return to spend the night with
you.”
A trace of a smile caused her lips to twitch as she
recognized the sound of irritation in his voice.
“You are going to see your princess, aren’t you.”
He nodded brusquely.
The Aramean was almost more trouble than she was worth. Almost, but not quite. He had found it a pleasant surprise to learn
that the poet’s courtly missive had not been sheer panegyric, except, he was
soon to learn, for the part about the cooing doves. That had been a bald-faced lie.
As it turned out, her voice would have been more accurately likened to
that of a bull bellowing, and an angry bull at that.
“Zipporah told Elon that she caught Shimrith making
offering to Baal again.” Jonathan
reached into the fireplace and withdrew a long brand of burning firewood. “So now I must put her false gods to the
torch and inform her that if she makes sacrifice to any god but the God of
Abraham while I am gone, I will have her stoned upon my return.”
“Oh, Jonathan,” Serah clutched at his arm. “You mustn’t!”
“I hope I won’t have to.
But I have no choice in the matter.
The Law is clear, and I would make an unworthy king indeed if I could
not control my own household.” He
lifted his jaw and quoted his favorite judge.
“‘As for me and my house, we will
serve the Lord.’ If she forces me to
it, I swear, I will throw the very first stone myself.”
Serah shuddered.
She was not fond of the Aramean, Jonathan knew, and was intimidated by
Shimrith’s exotic beauty, but she was truly a gentle soul who wished no woman
ill, not even her chief rival.
“Then I will speak to her,” she declared bravely. “It may be that her father was weak, and she
has learned to put little trust in a man’s word. I would not have her die simply because she does not know that my
lord’s word is his bond.”
“It is kind of you to defend her, but you do not need to
take this upon yourself, dear heart. I
will make the consequences clear to her, and she will not ignore me.”
“But I must,” Serah insisted. “If I cannot give you a child, then the burden falls to her. It has been six years… perhaps I am
barren! Who will be the heir after
you? If you and the king should both
fall, who then would lead Israel?”
Jonathan took her by the hands. They were so small, so delicate, and so very dear to him. He pressed his lips to them.
“I am not going to fall!” He punctuated his declaration with a firm kiss on her lips. “Not to the Philistines, or to anyone
else. Nor will the king. And you, my darling Serah, will be the
mother of my heir, no one else! Have I
not said so?”
She looked away, hiding behind her hair, but he could see
that she was smiling. Still, she was
persistent in her pleading for the Aramean.
“Don’t be too harsh with her, my lord. She has not been with us long, and the ways
of our people must still seem strange to her.”
Then she glanced at him sidelong, and her dark, smoky eyes were suddenly
coy and playful. “But don’t linger too
long in her tents, my love. Will I not
be waiting, as my lord has commanded?”
The Valley of Elah was an ideal place for battle,
Jonathan thought as the sun spilled across the surrounding foothills, although
he was starting to wonder if its lush green meadows would ever know the stain
of blood. Not that they lacked an
enemy; the Philistines had drawn up their battle lines at the base of a hill on
the other side of the valley and faced the army of Israel in three large
infantry formations, each accompanied by a sizable detachment of two-man
chariots. The largest group of
chariots, around twenty-five hundreds by Jonathan’s count, was positioned in
the center, in front of the enemy foot, and there, in the midst of the mass of
horses, brightly dyed leather helms, and dark iron-tipped spearpoints, he could
see the red-and-white banner of Achish, the king of Gath. His royal counterpart, Maacah, the king of
Ekron, was stationed to the Philistine left to judge by the blue banner there,
but the Ekronite’s two thousand chariots were equally divided between the left
and right wings.
He watched as messenger chariots raced back and forth,
from the side of one king to the other, knowing that the daily ignominy was
bound to begin at any moment. The two
armies had been at this impasse for forty days now, with neither side able to
break the deadlock. The Philistines,
having learned from their previous defeats, were not about to allow their
vaunted charioteers to ride within range of Jonathan’s bowmen, while the
Israelis, for their part, did not dare to leave the safety of the
hillside. Their numbers were too few to
attack across the whole of the broad Philistine front, and his father rightly
doubted their ability to break through the lines of the elite horn-helmeted
swordsmen, who, with their black-smithed swords, metal breastplates and
shatter-proof shields, made up the enemy center.
Not even the king’s Lions, for all of their oft-proven
strength and bravery, were up to the task.
Jonathan had seen far too many bronze swords splintering upon those ugly
round shields, so small and yet so effective, to question the king’s
equivocation. The spearmen of the two
outside formations would make for easier prey, as they were armored only with
cuirasses of leather and their fragile discipline would be easily broken by a
bold and aggressive charge. But he had
no idea of how either wing might be separated from the rest of the enemy army,
and a headlong attack on either side would only expose the Israelite flank to
the deadly swordsmen. That would truly
be foolish, and lead to a defeat so terrible it would make Aphek look like an
epic victory in comparison.
Which was no doubt the reason behind the sudden movement
in the midst of the enemy. As trumpets
sounded, bronze chariots began scuttling aside like great Egyptian scarabs, and
the Philistine center parted like the waters of the Red Sea before the staff of
Moses.
“Here he comes,” spat Ashodi. Jonathan’s grey-bearded captain fingered his bowstring. “Oh, that the Lord would give me the
strength! I’d put an arrow in his eye,
I would!”
“Be hard to miss,” he heard Elon reply. “His eyes must be the size of my hand. Bigger, maybe.”
But the giant Philistine was too canny to come within
bowshot. Jonathan was tall, and he
towered over most men, but he doubted the top of his helmet would even reach
the great Philistine’s breast. He was a
freak, this Philistine, a reminder of the cursed days before the Flood when
evil angels sired their monstrous progeny on the unwitting daughters of
men. His name was Goliath of Gath, a
name whispered with fear and loathing throughout the Israeli camp.
“Come, servants of Saul,” he bellowed in his deep,
thick-tongued voice. “Have you no
heroes? Have you no men?”
It was a familiar harangue, and Jonathan ignored it, his
thoughts returning to the tactical problem at hand. Goliath, though he did not know it, the dumb brute, was nothing
but a sacrificial lamb. Achish, the
more cunning of the two enemy kings, was obviously hoping that the constant
irritation of his huge champion’s insults would get under Saul’s skin, and
cause him to lead the Israelites into a rash entry onto the field. The giant would be the first to fall before
the advance of the fifteen thousand strong Israelite foot, but in dying, he
would surely buy the lives of his killers, who would be trapped between the
unbreakable Philistine vanguard and the enveloping wings of the enemy spearmen.
“Jonathan!”
He turned away from the valley and saw one of the king’s
Lions calling to him.
“The king wants you,” the tall warrior told him. He seemed to be very excited. “He has found a champion to fight the
giant!”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, then caught Elon’s eye. His longtime armor bearer unhesitatingly
picked up his heavy war shield, an iron buckler he’d captured five years ago
which was now mounted properly with polished bronze, and hurried after him to
the king’s tent. What they saw there
made both of them gape with disbelief.
It was a sight more incredible than any giant standing six cubits high.
Standing before them in the royal presence was a boy
wearing the king’s purple war tunic. It
was draped over Saul’s personal armor, which reached down past the boy’s knees
as if it were a woman’s dress woven of scaled bronze. Jonathan snorted as he watched his father place a well-polished
helm on the boy’s head; it wasn’t the device crafted for Saul’s own massive
cranium, but even this smaller device was too large for the boy and the front
of it slipped down over his eyes, with the nose guard descending almost to the
point of his chin.
The boy was determined, though. Jonathan had to give him that, as the lad awkwardly, but
stubbornly, slipped a leather swordbelt over his head and attempted to take a
few unwieldy steps. He lurched forward,
staggering under the weight of the heavy armor, and might have fallen if Elon
had not reached out and caught him.
Jonathan shook his head, not knowing if he should laugh or cry, as the
boy angrily pushed himself away from the older man and stumbled, mostly out of
control, in the opposite direction.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Jonathan asked icily. “Father, what are you thinking?”
“It’s no use, I’m not used to these things,” the boy
said, as he managed to stop himself before toppling over. "I can’t even walk in it, much less try
to fight.”
“He’s a child,” Jonathan argued, ignoring the boy. “You can’t permit him to go out there! I know the Philistine has insulted you, father,
but you cannot let him bait you. Achish
is just trying to provoke us into offering battle on their terms, you know
that. What do we lose by waiting? Nothing!
We’ve discussed this before!”
Saul made a face, and sighed as he pointed to the boy.
“You try telling him that. I tried to warn him, but he’s already seen the giant with his own
eyes, and still he says God will deliver him.
I thought the least I could do was to provide him with some armor, but…
well, you can see how that’s working out.”
Jonathan was staring at the boy. He looked strangely familiar, but it took a
moment before Jonathan understood why.
The boy had grown taller in the time since he had last seen him,
although he was still more than half a cubit shorter than Jonathan, and his
frame was starting to fill out a little too.
He had a long way to go, though, before he could hope to properly wear
Saul’s tunic, much less his armor.
“Why, I know you!
You’re one of the harpists Ziba found, after we got rid of that
tone-deaf Asherite boy. David, that’s
your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord, that is how I am called.”
The boy started to bow, but the armor he was wearing
threw off his balance and he started to fall over again. Now it was Jonathan’s turn to catch him, and
he did so with a grunt, shaking his head all the while.
“Never mind that.
Elon, come here and help him take off this armor. It’s ridiculous!” He lifted up a hand in bewilderment, not even knowing where to
start. “David, what are you doing here
in the camp? You should be back at
Gibeah, or with your family, wherever they are.”
The boy glared at him.
His youthful eyes were dark and intense, and to Jonathan’s surprise,
especially considering the circumstances, they held more than a spark of
intelligence. He found himself rather
liking the lad.
“I’m here because my father sent me. My brothers are here, they serve the King
under the command of Ladan ben Joah. I
came with bread and cheese for them, when I heard this uncircumcised Philistine
defying the armies of the living God.”
His eyes blazed with indignant fury.
“So I have asked to fight him, and the king has granted my wish.”
“Are you mad?”
Jonathan addressed his father, not David. “You gave him permission?
You actually said he could go out there? This is not a joke, father, this boy… you’re sending him to his
death!”
A brief spasm of embarrassment crossed Saul’s grizzled
face, but the accusation didn’t seem to unduly upset him.
“He says he’s killed a lion and a bear,” he offered
mildly. “That’s something, anyhow.”
“A lion and a bear?
So what? I’ve killed hundreds of
Philistines, and still I couldn’t beat that giant! Why not simply cast the boy into the fire, as the pagans do? This is little better than a sacrifice!”
Jonathan felt a hand on his arm, interrupting his
tirade. It belonged to the boy.
“My lord, do not be angry with the king.