Abraham and Sarah (48 page)

Ahithophel insisted on leading the men. Bathsheba listened anxiously as they stole out of the brake. The moon had long since set, and there was not a gleam of light. She was uncomfortable in the cart; the grain scratched and her feet were numb, but she dared not move.

Suddenly the night outside the thicket came alive with the sound of shouting. There was a whir of arrows cutting the air, and Bathsheba instinctively ducked down.

“Philistines! Philistines!” Around her people shrieked as they urged their donkeys and mules forward out of the brake and down the steep mountain path. In the confusion Bathsheba was forgotten.

Quickly she jumped from the cart and tugged at the leather thong that bound the mule. It would not loosen. Already she could hear a guttural, strange language as the Philistines warily approached the thicket. They would discover the wagon any minute now.

Frantically she reached down into the grain and drew out the doves. The mule brayed suddenly in fright. Bathsheba turned and ran wildly down the hill, pushing through the tangle of vines and undergrowth. There was a shout behind her, and the child knew that the Philistines had found the cart full of grain. That would stop them for a moment. At last she came to a stop beneath a huge, overhanging rock.

From the opposite direction there came the sound of a mule being ridden at full speed. Bathsheba flattened herself against the rock. She heard her own name called and recognized the voice of her father’s friend, Judah.

“I’m here!” she cried.

“Thanks be to God you are safe,” he whispered, as he lifted her onto the mule in front of him. There was a sound of snapping twigs and guttural voices from the thicket. Bathsheba felt Judah’s strong arms tighten around her as he dug his heels into the mule’s flanks. Soon they were moving down the path so swiftly that pebbles flew in showers from the mule’s hooves.

Once out of danger, Judah steadied the mule to a slower pace. “Don’t worry about your grandfather,” he said gently. “I’m sure he got away. We’ll no doubt meet him at the Vale of Farah where we turn down to the Jordan.” They continued down the steep rocky trail, the mule finding his way in the darkness.

They did not meet Ahithophel at the Vale of Farah, but Judah reassured her: “Your grandfather will no doubt meet us at the Jabbok before daylight.”

She leaned back against Judah’s strong left arm and felt the steady beat of his heart through the woven material of his cloak. In this same way her father had once taken her to ride with him. She tried to remember Emmiel’s face and voice. Although she loved her reckless, impulsive father, he had been gone from home so much she hardly knew him.

It was a long and tedious ride down to the Jordan and then across to the Jabbok where Ahithophel was indeed waiting. Her grandfather came to where Bathsheba sat sleepily cradled in Judah’s arms and gently carried her back to ride before him on his donkey.

Bathsheba smiled drowsily as Judah followed with the doves and placed them in her arms. As the sun burst over the eastern hills she heard Ahithophel give the command, and the caravan began to move in single file up the path that led into the mountains of the Gilead.

It was evening as they approached the ancient, walled city of Mahanaim. The name meant “two camps” and was said to be the place where Jacob met his brother, Esau. It had been declared a city of refuge for Israel. Anyone seeking asylum within its walls was safe from his pursuers.

Now it was past the curfew hour and the large, wooden gates, covered with beaten brass, were closed. There was a brief exchange, and the gates were unlocked for Ahithophel and his villagers. They moved silently up the narrow street between the houses. People were everywhere: in the shadowy doorways, looking down from the rooftops, leaning out the narrow windows. No one spoke or called a greeting. An air of gloom pervaded the ancient city.

A young man with a torch led them through a narrow doorway into an open court where groups of people were huddled around small fires. Babies were crying and animals wandered about. Bathsheba noticed that no servant came to wash their feet.

The boy with the torch stopped and began to curse a young woman with two children who had fallen asleep on some wineskins. “Move, move,” he shouted. “There are many more still coming.”

Finally the people of Giloh found an open area close to a wall. Bathsheba and Machir climbed up on some bales of straw, their eyes anxiously following Ahithophel as he left to find his son. They were given pieces of half-naked bread with curds, but Bathsheba could not eat. The choking smell of smoke; the stench of scorched olive oil, smoked cheese, pita bread; odors of thyme and cumin, all mixed with a terrible fear in the pit of her stomach.

Ahithophel forced his way through the crowded streets to the court where Abner, his onetime friend and general, was viewing the wounded and dying men stretched out in rows. “Don’t touch these men,” Abner warned as he pulled Ahithophel away from the stretchers. “Some are dead. You could become defiled.”

“What is defilement to me if my son is here among these men?” Ahithophel countered.

When Abner did not answer, Ahithophel seized him by the shoulders: “Abner, in the name of God where is my son?”

Abner put his arm around Ahithophel and spoke gently. “I can assure you he is not here among these wounded.”

Ahithophel drew back. “If my son is not here, where is he?”

“Come with me to the king’s court where we can talk.”

Woodenly Ahithophel followed the general past the grimy, bloodstained men, some groaning with pain.

Inside the courtyard of the king, Ahithophel found himself surrounded by the men of Benjamin. They were waiting for Saul’s only surviving son, Ishbosheth, to come out into the courtyard to be crowned with his father’s crown. Seeing Abner, the king’s general, they crowded around and plied him with questions

“Why is Ishbosheth delaying?”

“It is important he be crowned at once.”

“Patience,” Abner admonished the men. “Please be patient with the young prince. He has just received word that the headless bodies of Saul and his sons have been hung for all to see from the walls of Bet Shean.”

A moan swept over the men. They began to cry out their frustrations to the God of Israel, who had deserted them in their hour of need. “This is not the worst,” Abner shouted, motioning for silence. “Word has also come to the young prince that the heads of his father and brothers are being sent around to all the Philistine cities so their people might mock the men of Israel.”

With that the men of Benjamin began to wail and weep, tearing their cloaks and beating their breasts. Some even dropped to the ground and wept with their foreheads touching the rough-packed dirt of the courtyard.

Ahithophel was caught up in the general grief, but he did not forget his purpose. He clutched the cloak of Abner and shouted over the din, “My son. What of my son?”

Abner turned to him with bloodshot eyes. “Ahithophel, your son died nobly on Gilboa with the king.”

Ahithophel staggered and fell back as though wounded himself. “No, no, not my son. You are mistaken. It could not have been my son.”

Abner put his arm around him, drawing him away from the rest of the men. “Ahithophel, I would not lie to you. As I live before God, your son died a hero.”

Ahithophel began to tremble. His teeth chattered as with great cold so that he could say nothing. Although his whole body shook with sobs, tears would not come.

Now Ishbosheth was led into the courtyard by priests bearing incense and holy water. Though the young prince appeared overcome with grief, the ceremony of crowning him king proceeded as though it were taking place back in the palace of Saul, and soon Ishbosheth stood awkwardly in the center of the court with great robes of state, that had been rescued from Gibeah, hanging large and loose on his slender frame.

At last Ahithophel found his voice. He looked wildly around at Ishbosheth and the others. “Why did they die? Where was the God of Israel when the roebucks of His people were being cut down by the chariots of the Philistines? Is our God not strong enough to deliver us from men who ride in chariots of iron?”

He moved around the courtyard, pain twisting his face as he demanded answers of the silent men. Suddenly a young priest named Gad stepped forward. “It is no mystery why Israel lost to the Philistines. It was not that our slings could not match the chariots of iron, nor that our arrows were not as sure as their iron lances, nor that their thousands outnumbered our hundreds; no, it was something deeper. We stood on Gilboa and watched them come as though we were already dead and doomed. The God of Israel was not with us, and we were as men without armor or a soldier without his shield.”

The young man’s voice took on the cadence of a prophet. “The terrible anger of Saul against his servant David divided our forces. We were all weak men who trembled like aspens at the sight of their chariots. If David had been there he would have raised up a standard in our midst and shouted us on, and we would have been fleet like mountain goats.”

Hearing the criticism of his dead father, Ishbosheth threw off his royal robe in a rage. “By my father’s good name, I shall not stand and hear you speak of him in these words and with the same mouth bless my enemy, David.”

Gad stood his ground. “It was Saul who led us out to certain defeat. It was his obsession that led him to pass through the Philistine lines to seek out the witch of Endor in the far side of Mount Moreh. He made her call up Samuel from the dead; that is a known sin for our people. Then, faint with fear because of what Samuel had told him, he walked all night to rejoin us at Bilboa. Tired and fearful he could not lead us out to victory against our enemies.”

Ahithophel spoke in a voice strong with suppressed emotion. “It was King Saul who committed this great sin and not my son? Why, then, Gad, did my son die?”

Gad closed his eyes and spoke as though reading from a scroll: “When kings go wrong they carry down to destruction whole nations, not just themselves.”

With that he turned and walked from the court, leaving it shaken as though God, Himself, had spoken. Only Ahithophel was unmoved. He followed Gad to the street and shouted after him.

“My son did no wrong! It is not fair that he should die when he did nothing wrong.”

Angrily Ahithophel returned to his family. He ignored the comfort of Reba and turned to Machir and Bathsheba. Placing his hands on their shoulders he looked into their eyes with a commanding challenge. “Never forget this night,” he said. “You are all that is left of your father’s line. Never forget his blood runs in your veins. Be proud. Be strong and see that you are a credit to his dead name.”

Several days later when he held his first court, Ishbosheth awarded Ahithophel and the refugees from Giloh the nearby Canaanite village of Lodebar: “… until the Philistines are defeated and you can return to Giloh.” Though some of the Canaanites still lived in Lodebar, most of them had fled north to Syria months before, at the outbreak of the hostilities between Israel and the Philistines. “Until Giloh is retaken, Lodebar is yours,” the young king said, glancing for confirmation to Abner, his general, who stood beside him directing all that he did.