Free Bathsheba by Angela Hunt

The king yawned again before calling an order to a servant standing near the doorway. The man quickly disappeared, then returned with a cup of wine.
    Sipping from his cup, David walked to the edge of the rooftop and studied the city, where buildings were springing up like mushrooms. Many houses on the palace’s south side were still underconstruction, and the sound of hammering reached my ears even though the hour was late. Something in the sight must have pleased him, for he crossed his arms in a pose of great satisfaction.
    Then he shifted his position and turned slightly, peering down at a row of homes within shouting distance of the palace wall. I studied David as he studied his city. Why was the king in Jerusalem when his army had gone to Rabbah? David was known for courageous military exploits, and I had every reason to believe he thrived on the challenge of battle strategy. So why had he remained behind?
    An image focused in my memory—on my last visit to David I had relayed a message from the Lord, a promise that Adonai would secure David’s kingdom forever. Was the king now so confident in his success that he no longer felt the need to personally invest in Israel’s military campaigns?
    I frowned and considered the question. If David considered Adonai’s last message an eternal reprieve from a king’s duties of work, worship, and righteous war, he had forgotten the nature of HaShem. The Lord of Hosts loved David, but like a good father He chastened His children when they went astray. Surely Adonai had not given His promise in order to lull David into complacency. A complacent man would eventually neglect the Lord, because he would depend upon HaShem’s promise and not HaShem himself.
    I bit my lip and scrutinized the king’s countenance. From where I watched, the rays of the setting sun tinted his hair with red-gold highlights, painting him like a man ablaze. He had aged since claiming the throne of Israel, and looked as if he had lived hard in each of his thirty-nine years. Laugh lines radiated from the corners of his eyes like cracks, and time had etched deep grooves from the edges of his nostrils to his red beard. But his hair had not yet gone white, nor had it measurably thinned.
    David’s posture shifted abruptly as he bent from the waist and lowered his forearms to the balustrade. He leaned into open space,and for an instant I feared he would fall. Then I glimpsed his face and saw this was no careless king. He wore the expression of a man who has not eaten in days, and his eyes had gone from dreamy and contemplative to black and dangerous. His expression—dare I say it?—was that of a man overtaken with the mindless fervor of a stallion in rut.
    Alarmed, I looked down on the city to see what had caused this abrupt change in his countenance. My gaze skimmed rooftops and gardens, houses and pathways, and then I spied two women in a tree-lined courtyard. One sat in a mikvah , her back to me. Her hands gripped the sides of a stone trough while her servant poured fresh water over her hair and shoulders. But even though the younger woman’s face was not visible, the glimpse of slender shoulders, the gentle tapering of ribs to a narrow waist, the flare of feminine hips . . . my own loins began to stir. I turned away, realizing I had no business gazing at any woman in that manner. I looked at the king and saw that he had not averted his gaze. Instead of turning aside or closing his eyes, he remained focused on the tantalizing sight. He then straightened and signaled for the guard at the door.
    My hope—my confidence—in Israel’s anointed king shriveled as the guard hurried to answer his master’s command.
    “See that house?” David pointed to the courtyard below. “Make note of it, go inquire, and return straightway to tell me who that woman is.”
    With only a brief downward glance, the guard jogged away while David bent again, devouring the sight of the woman as she stood, accepted a robe from