Bathsheba

Alone again at her own party; third one this season. She personally invited each of her “friends”. . . individually. In person. She visited their homes, chased them down at the market, bribed a servant. They all said they’d come. But, once again they sent their weaselly messengers with some BS excuse. Forgotten engagement, feeling ill, or the worst lie: their child needs them. As if any noblewoman didn’t pawn off their child to the wet nurse at the slightest inconvenience.

Bathsheba knew what they said about her. They knew she knew too.

She had married a foreigner. A non-Israelite. A goy named Uriah [the Hittite]. The group’s estrangement started as innocent as most of the fairer sex’s do. They asked her shortly after her wedding, “What’s a foreskin look like?” Giggles, blushes, teases, and jokes. Harmless at the time. Then, the backhanded compliment, “I can’t imagine not being able to have an intelligent conversation with my husband. Good for you. Uriah’s Hebrew’s good, but still, ya know?”

One or two bad nights, Bathsheba could write it off. Maybe they were projecting their envy. Uriah was successful. One of King David’s top soldiers, albeit a foreigner.

However, something deep and inarticulate inside Bathsheba her would pester her. Something like fretting over what you might’ve done the drunken night before. It reminded her of invitations her friends “accidentally forgot to send.” Its logic straightened out others’ smiles into mocks. It cataloged timelines and poked holes in her “friend’s” excuses.

As a well behaved raised woman, she performed dutifully: She stomached it. She repressed it. She overate to comatose such thoughts. She drank to shut it up. She disowned her intuition as every good daughter and wife ought to.

The gut is rarely hysterical though. At a market she saw two friends ahead of her. She crept up for a ticklish surprise, but soon overheard their plagued mouths spilling caustic vile. Undeniable. She stayed silent.

“I heard that only us children of Abraham learn about Sodom and Gomorrah. I wonder if she chose to forget it too!”

“It must be so. She is yet to conceive a child!”

One of their servants interrupted their convulsive cackling. They turned with the most pathetic, panicked faces.

Bathsheba summoned a warm greeting. Stick to protocol as always. Her body language neither communicated that she heard nor didn’t hear. She let them stew in their slop. The scoundrels did that cowardly act of pretend ignorance. They blinked all over the place with stupid, vacant faces. If Bathsheba heard anything, it was she who was crazy. She who was hearing things. She who was “overreacting about what again?”

I don’t know why, but Bathsheba chose to be magnanimous. She didn’t even address their awkwardness. She simply chatted quick small talk and apologized for being too busy. “I wish I could stay and chat longer!”

But what else could she do!? Blow up in their faces? That’d only be a public reason for them to shun her (even more). They’d have the plausible deniability.

It was a bummer because they all grew up together. She knew some from before Jerusalem was King David’s capital. She and three of them pricked fingers to be blood sisters for life. Their rabbi discovered the forbidden pagan ritual and chastised them appropriately for their young age: with the fear of God. They were old enough to pretend their repentance, regroup at their favorite meadow, laugh away their success, and understand how “no one could tell the truth around that scary man” although too young to know that “duress” is a word.

These were her friends! They fought over crushes, slept over at homes, match-make’ed, shared secrets, cried at funerals, and babysat the cuties together. Now they abandoned her.

Why? What did she do? Ok, she married a foreigner. But nobody chose their husband. Their fathers did. And it was political.

Her husband was a successful lieutenant or general? (Hard to keep up because of how many promotions.) But their husbands were rising in the ranks too. It wasn’t zero sum. Plus, the husbands loved Uriah. Their husbands would actually force their wives to Bathsheba’s parties when Uriah was home from campaign because they loved partying with her man. Men. They never talk about anything substantial together, but somehow bond so easily and deeply.

And she’s a better wife than any of them. Their marriages were political too, but it was still marriage at its rawest. Bathsheba never outed any of her friends’ dirty laundry. Complaints about their husbands. Tricks to avoid pregnancies with the man older than a grandfather. Servants abused. Love affairs! True, it remained unspoken that it was ok to pursue extramarital romance if kept responsible. . . but she didn’t break confidences like everyone else. She never talked about anybody not in the room. . . Did she?

One even alluded to Bathsheba’s face that she should find a lover. But, that’d just be more ammo to scandal Bathsheba. She couldn’t win. Ridiculed for “not being able” to find a lover. Stoned for an adultery that no one else gets called out for. Lose. Lose.

There was no obvious reasoning behind it all besides something corrupting these “friends.” I’m fun? I know I’m fun.

Were they all really that unhappy that they needed a punching bag? Did comparison to Bathsheba make their miserable lives bearable? Was she really that fun to make fun of? Bathsheba remembered laughing with them all about their own mothers’ stupid drama. Now it’s not ridiculous? Ok? Bathsheba guessed a sort of imposter syndrome. So much wealth and prestige, but still under the command of their husbands. Nothing was their own, but their flapping tongues. They could spit on Bathsheba as long as they licked the right people.

Bathsheba couldn’t do anything right, and she tried. After the language barrier comment, she learned Hittite, and guess what: this was shameful. Bathsheba and Uriah had both Hittite and Hebrew servants. Bathsheba made the mistake of speaking Hittite in public, and the word spread. Then, one of the worst offending so-called-friends had the gall to tell Bathsheba, “We’re worried about you and your image. It’s not becoming to. . .” God forbid a wife talk with her husband in his mother tongue!

Bathsheba wasn’t pregnant yet, so in came the best doctors. Recommended by the crew because who else. They basically had a bet on whose guy’s could fix Bathsheba.

The eventual (expensive) prescription was to not stress her body with too much walking. So, per doctor’s orders, she rode her chariot through the streets one day. “Look at her. Who does she think she is?” Now, Bathsheba was full of herself if she rode. If she walked, she was now “obviously overcompensating. So desperate.” She began to stay at home more and more, sending servants for her errands.

Her servants would relay the hearsay. Bathsheba’s hair was apparently “last year’s style.” Her Egyptian cotton wasn’t Egyptian enough. She was too skinny. She was eating too much. She was too imperious with her servants. She let her servants have too much agency.

A demon would posses Bathsheba many nights. It’d whisper fast and yell loud. The other wives, your old friends, they still love you. The servants are using you. Keeping you all to themselves. God, it was tempting. How easy it is to blame wicked, manipulating, lying servants! It was so vogue to do so. All the rich love complaining about their rich people problems. Empathy always accompanied it. Bathsheba fantasized about a mass dismissal and execution of the slaves. What a service it’d be to save the community from such contemptuous workers! They’d be the culprits! She could collapse in front of everyone in agony from such misfortune. Who could deny her then?! She’d get some sympathy. The tiniest, but it’d be something!

Prayer banished these discursive thoughts, but not forever. Prayer must be routine and diligent. Her servants weren’t wicked. She knew. Bathsheba liked her servants. They laughed together. They confided in each other. They asked for favors (appropriate to their stations). They were kinda’ her best friends now. But Bathsheba knew the power dynamic. Who can really be friends with the maid.

We shouldn’t really feel too bad for Bathsheba (and/or her colleagues?). They were the 1%. Clean water, enough for regular baths; plentiful food; warm homes; armed security; and noble rights to life, land, speech, and education that a lowborn could never achieve. Her home had money. Enough money where labor wasn’t needed. Leisure time was abundant.

But other aristocrats have their spouse. Bathsheba slept alone more than with her husband. He was off campaigning for land promised to her people. Her husband Uriah was a good man, truly. She believed she could’ve fallen in love with him. He was just gone. Gone a lot. This was the price for being married to a soldier. Well, “debt” is more accurate. Her father forced arranged the marriage. All marriages were forced arranged.

Regardless, she could’ve found in Uriah what she lost from her friends. She could’ve found a confidant. She could’ve found delightful company. She could’ve found stress relief, assistance, love, kindness, companionship, laughter, joy, inside jokes, bliss, family, and touch. She could’ve found her best friend. Or at least she believed she could’ve. They never had the time to try.

There was one thing Bathsheba felt guilty for. She now hated her father. He always told her how special and talented she was. (Guess that was a lie, knowingly or not.) Growing up, he promised her the most grandiose future for her and her children—with a favored son of Israel! Safe, abundant, righteous, wealthy, and in accordance with God’s will. This was the reward for his own soldiering. Her father had fought with King David against the wicked Faith-breaker Saul. Bathsheba loved hearing the stories of his adventures. As she matured, the details of her father’s actions got a little sticky. Lying to priests, a suspicious death of a man whose wife King David favored, allowing Israelites to die and be enslaved by enemies because those Israelites still followed the wrong king. Her father spoke the classic “ends justify the means.” Bathsheba said she understood to make her dad happy.

But now what! The promise of a good future only to squander it by marrying her to a foreigner? Her mother promised blissful love. Her father had promised to marry her well. Only to pimp her out to a goy because seventeen is too old to be unwed. “People will think you’re blotched or deformed, or worse.” Fuckin’ liars. . .

Uriah’s a good man. It’s not his fault, it’s just—he’s the reason for all this. And worse, her children will be forever doomed to second class citizenship.

She never imagined hating her parents. There wasn’t really a precedent in her society. Well, at least not spoken of. Plenty of sons hate their father. Every Israelite’s great grandfather up the line was Abraham. He almost killed his son. So that Freudian complex was prevalent even though it didn’t have a name yet.

There’s plenty of momma’s boys stories throughout the land. My son will be a prophet. Mine will rally the tribes like Gideon the Judge. My son can be king. There was even some vogue talk of a messiah savior thing starting around the town. So, yea, plenty of male-child-centric psychoanalysis. Shamans and witches refuse to visit angels (ritual hallucination) with such boys. Well, some wives gossiped Samuel was a momma’s boy, but he’s famous. He can be whatever.

She’s only Bathsheba. Will she be the first? Will they name a mental disorder after her? There’s the wacky Rechabites. Super priest Aaronites. Will she have started the Bathshebites? Now she’s just projecting, but with how viral the vitriol is, it sure didn’t feel that crazy. Always the butt of the joke. What’s one more?

Alone again at her own party. These thoughts raced through her mind in less than three seconds. But, with no one to talk to they just kept doing laps. Over and over. Nagging her. Blaming herself. Blaming her parents. Suspecting the help. Doubting her worth. Worrying about fertility. Convincing her she’s ugly. Hating those she loved. Hating herself for still loving them.

She ordered a bath on the roof and dismissed the servants. It wasn’t the most proper decorum, but “Hey, I’m just giving them what they want. They want a fool so here I come.”

She drank her Phoenician wine from her refined metal cup until something gave her the chills in steamy water. She whipped her head up and over. A man was watching her! He quickly hid, unable to be made out. Bathsheba shrank lower into the water to hide. A few calculations later, she determined she could retreat inside. She did. I don’t know if she laughed to herself out of nervousness, flattery, the wine, or that “of course it happens to me.” Regardless, she cataloged the faux pas with all the rest. Fortunately, when there’s so many things, none truly sting that much anymore.

About twenty minutes later, her home had a visitor. For a second she thought one of her “friends” actually showed, but it was King David’s advisor. She was summoned.

Now, what to do here? You can’t say no to the king, but I don’t know if she would’ve if she could’ve. Few are repulsed by royalty, especially the good-looking, successful, and beloved monarchs. She didn’t flatter him more than anyone else would a king. She didn’t throw herself at him. She didn’t seduce him. But, she also didn’t reject him.

Word spread among the men of the royal court which means that they inevitably told some woman. . . which means the gossip would be unstoppable. Men take a strange joy in originating female discord. The capital city was young. It was a small city. So small, that Bathsheba’s grandfather worked as an advisor or councilor or something in the palace.

In order to save face for all three (himself [and family name], King David, and his grandson-in-law Uriah), Bathsheba’s grandfather concocted a plan. Recall Uriah for some minor battle-supply report or whatever and he’ll be able to “sleep at home” for a few nights. Plausible deniability. Bang. It’s his kid, not yours, Your Highness. “Shit, if we’re lucky, he might actually think it is his child.”

Bathsheba wasn’t consulted until after the men decided, and this was standard. Something changed in her though, and it was weird. Her whole life she had followed her man’s orders: father’s, husband’s, then eventually son’s (if so blessed). She had been safe, secure, righteous, and happy (except the recent pariah era with fake friends). Evidence from her life told her it was her duty to obey. And she would’ve happily. Most women subjects happily would. And it’s more weird because there was none of that “bottled up resentment from years of repression” that finally broke lose via disobedience. She wasn’t a pioneer for equality of sexes. Equality didn’t exist; she owned slaves. She lived better than most humans, male or female. The tradeoff had worked from the beginning of time. Why risk a good thing?

But there must be something in royal blood. It converted that whisper-yelling demon into an angel. It impregnated her with ideas that nature demanded be brought to fruition. It made the dashing knights and renown councilors of the court look like little boys, playing with sticks and stones, breaking bones, afraid of words and hurting.

She was pregnant, and that’s enough to liberate a woman from others’ selfish concerns. Furthermore, this one’s a prince. Didn’t her father promise greatness?

Bathsheba organized for her husband to “find out.” Easy enough. Tell a Hebrew servant in front of a Hittite servant that understands. They’ll spread the word to other Hittites in the city. It’ll get to Uriah. With his ego, he’ll make a scene. There’ll be a divorce, he’ll leave the king’s service, and I’ll be wife number. . . “How many are there now?” It’ll be toxic up there in the palace, but at least to her face. And not alone.

It worked perfectly. She didn’t even see her husband when he returned for the two or three nights. Uriah knew, and Bathsheba knew he knew. His reason to stay away was some archaic practice of sleeping in the barracks while on active duty. But, he didn’t make a scene. Instead, he left back to the war.

Her grandfather now blamed Bathsheba. He even brought Bathsheba’s dad to help shame her. “What have you done? Uriah’s a good man. You know nothing of the King. You have disgraced the family. Blah blah.” Their criticism of her adultery was accurate, I guess, but very interesting how the fury only came after their scheme failed. Her husband ruined their desperate attempt to save face, and it’s her fault. (They knew nothing of her personal scheme.) Bathsheba called out their hypocrisy. Her father slapped her, as a good father did.

Her gnarled teeth, viper eyes, and dog-like snarl silenced her elder’s flapping tongues. She grunted “Why do you fucking care anyway!”

They recoiled from her first transformation into adult hostility. Father and grandfather looked at each other shocked, scared, and concerned until settling into a calmer, assuring presence for their child. They attempted this presence at least. They didn’t seem too confident in themselves anymore.

I don’t which side of the family she got this ego from because it seemed her dad had never seen someone like this. Her father pleaded, “My child, you have to know. Your husband is to die.”

Bathsheba rejected their exaggerating. “No, don’t do that—he’s back to the campaign!”

“My daughter, the king has commanded him to fight in the front. He will not survive.”

A chill ran down her arms and spiked her hair. Her buttocks clenched; her legs hurt. Uriah didn’t deserve this, ran through her mind, but it was hard to hear. It sounded as if someone yelling specifics from far away. Something closer drove these fearful sensations away though: spite for her father, pregnancy hormones, royal opportunities, or simply confidence. An ironic smile formed on Bathsheba’s face. “Soldiers die every day for our nation, and it is good as God wills. I am to be a queen. I cannot afford to mourn over such pedestrian concerns anymore. And, you should be happy father. I have elevated our lot farther than you ever dreamed of. It was you who promised us the world and failed to deliver. I have taken it myself!. . . For us. Don’t be too upset, father. It was you who taught me that ends justify the means, and it is holy.”

She wed the king. She no longer chased people’s opinions. Now, they were desperate to prove themselves. Her parties had lines and guest lists, mandatory for her friends. She’d mismatch jewelry to watch which women copied next time. They tasted new notes that she made up after smelling a jar. They scurried to keep up with her chariot and tripped in manure. They smiled through their anxiety as they forced her to before. Nobody hid gossip from her anymore. Rather they rushed to tell her everything others said. That is, if she hadn’t started the talk herself.

Bathsheba bore the future king Solomon. She made her family famous. She secured respect for their name. She raised him in a home so magnificent that all misdeeds, regardless of fault, must’ve been sanctioned, if not planned, by God.