Rise to Power (The David Chronicles) (Volume 1) Page 2

  Now I know, power comes from within, from something else entirely: my skill with words. I wish I would have recognized it a long time ago, on my first visit to the royal court. Perhaps then I would have become a poet. Not a king.

  It is still a long time from daybreak, and the girl’s breast heaves as she mumbles something, some unclear word. She is so close at hand and yet, so far out of my reach.

  When I was first crowned king over my own tribe, I was such a vigorous young man that no illness could keep me away from my dear wives and concubines. If I would catch a cold, all of them would be sneezing. Not so this girl. Unlike all the women I have had since then, she is immune to my weaknesses. She is the one I will never know.

  I am here with her, yet this chill is meant for me alone.

  I hold my breath until she lulls herself back to sleep. Faint shadows start dancing on the wall. I read the shapes, trying to invent someone, a listener.

  You.

  I whisper, Come in... Call me insane, who cares? Who the hell cares if you refuse to trust me, if you insist on clinging to your kind of reality, which is as dull as it is solid... Mine, I insist, is not a dream.

  But even if it is... Even so, it is true! How can you deny it? Here is my story. I am opening it up to you.

  I can see why at first glance what you see here—these letters which I jotted here, on these papyrus rolls—may seem scattered, even scary. I understand why you step back from my door, why you look over your shoulder to find the guard...

  Come in! Will you? Will you read these scribblings? Can you see my sword, which I have drawn here, look! Can you see it the way I do, lifting out of the ink and into the air, turning magically over, around and around, right here in the center of the space?

  If you can, then—by the flash of it—I shall take you along, to leap with me into the surface of the steely thing. Down into its depths. Into my reflection.

  First Audition

  Chapter 1

  I am so thrilled! I can barely contain myself. My skin is tingling all over. Oh, what luck! What a wonderful day! I have been summoned to appear before his majesty. Nothing can be more exciting than this chance—truly, the chance of a lifetime—to audition for the job of a court musician.

  Being brash and inexperienced I arrive at the front gate brimming with confidence. Rejection? What rejection! I am utterly unprepared for it. A little voice somewhere inside my head keeps telling me that for an entertainer, this may be a mistake.

  No one has seen the king in public during the last four weeks, and rumors are that he is possessed by an evil spirit, or something. I am skeptical of what cannot be touched, plucked or squeezed, so I think nothing of spirits, evil or divine. Perhaps I will one day, when I am old, like him.

  At this point I cannot wait to play before him. All I crave is applause. Back on my father’s farm, in the outskirts of Bethlehem, I can make even the most hardened men soften, somehow, to the sound of my music, which convinces me—perhaps foolishly—that I am destined for fame.

  Now I knock at the palace doors, and prick up my ears. There seems to be some commotion inside, after which the doors crack open, ever so slightly.

  I sense someone looking up and down at me, studying me through the hairline gap.

  At last, “Let the boy in,” says a voice.

  “You searched him, did you?” growls another.

  “It’s fine, he’s been cleared,” says the first, with a lazy drawl. “They done him at the front gate, already.”

  There is some exchange of words behind the doors, which is hard for me to figure out, because of the foreign accent. Of course, at this time of civil unrest, none of the locals from Judea or from tribes other than the king’s own would ever be hired to guard the palace.

  After a while, two guards step out with a heavy thump. They look like apes in uniform.

  One says, “Hey you! What’s that thing here, in your hand?”

  And the other butts in, “You can’t bring weapons in here.”

  “This?” I chuckle. “My flute? You never seen one?”

  They study the thing, even poke their hairy fingers into each of its holes, crinkling their noses as if expecting it to explode in their face. Finally they step aside to let me in.

  These stone walls play back a quick beat, which answers the clip-clop of my worn-out sandals. They have been kicked down the line to me after each one of my seven brothers used them, each in his turn. The crinkled leather smells of their flesh, but also of the grassy fields back home.

  Now I dash eagerly through the long corridor which—to my surprise—has a musty stench. At the far end I spot an arc, which is where a hall opens before me.

  The space is enormous. It is lit by two torches: one flickering out of a sconce in the right corner, the other—out of a sconce in the left. Between them lies a flat slab of rock, used as a stage. Above it is a richly draped, raw-silk canopy, decorated by pretty tassels the likes of which I have never seen before. And sheltered in its shadow is a tall figure in a long, royal robe.

  There is something about him, something menacing which I cannot begin to put into words. Perhaps it is that thing which he clasps tightly in his fist: an incredibly long spear. Light glances off its sharp iron head, as if to give a signal of some kind, a warning.

  It makes me wonder... This is the safest place in the kingdom: his place, his palace. He is surrounded by a dozen or so hand-picked attendants. And yet there he is: a king clinging to his weapon, as if this were a combat zone.

  To show respect I fall to my knees before him. The floor is cold, having absorbed the damp of a long winter. The surface is porous, even crumbly here and there, cut of rocks from the Judea mountains. So is the surface of the stage, right in front of my eyes.

  I cannot help noting the marks drawn by his spear in the film of dirt up there, around his boots. Scratch, twist, scratch again... No wonder he seems to be in such a royal pain: with all these attendants here to serve him, not a single one has managed to come up with the bright idea of sweeping the floor. They all carry weapons, but not one has a broom.

  Sitting nearly immobile, Saul seems as chalky as the walls around him. He sits crumpled—in an odd way—upon the throne. His nails keep digging into the little velvety cushions that are stretched over the carved armrests. Not once does he give a nod in my direction, nor does he acknowledge my presence in any other way.

  Which agitates me. It awakens my doubt, doubt in my skill. Much the same as I feel in my father’s presence. Repressed. On the verge of acting out.

  So, rising to my feet I blurt out, “Your majesty—”

  “Don’t talk,” whispers one of the attendants. “Play.”

  I am pushed a step or two backwards, so as to maintain proper distance from the presence of the king. My name is called out in a clunky manner of introduction, after which I am instructed to choose from an array of musical instruments. I figure they must be the loot of war. So when I play them, the music of enemy tribes shall resound here, around the hall.

  I pluck the strings of a sitar, then put it back down and pick up a lyre, which I make quiver, quiver with notes of fire! Then I rap, clap, tap, snap my fingers, and just to be cute, play a tune on my flute, after which I do a skip, skip, skip and a back flip.

  It is a long performance, and towards the end of it I find myself trying to catch my breath. Alas, my time is up. Even so I would not stop.

  Entranced I go on to recite several of my poems, which I have never done before, for fear of exposing my most intimate, raw emotions, which is a risky thing for a man, and even riskier for a boy my age. Allowing your vulnerability to show takes one thing above all: a special kind of courage. Trust me, it takes balls.

  So, having read the last verse I cast a look at the attendants, especially the ones closest to me. Their faces seem to have softened. I can sense them beginning to adore me. One of them comes over and taps my shoulder, which nearly knocks me off my feet. Another one laughs. Others wipe their eyes.


  Then I glance at Saul, hoping for a tear, a smile, a word of encouragement. Instead I note an odd, vacant look on his face. Utter indifference. It stings me. Am I too short, too young, too curly for the role he has in mind for me?

  Wiping the sweat off my brow I bow down before him and turn to leave the court, which is the moment he leans forward on his spear.

  “Stop right there,” says Saul. “Tell me: what can you do best?”

  To which I say, “Recover.”

  He glowers at me as if to ask, Recover? From what?

  “From this,” I point out, daring to be honest. “Rejection.”

  At this, the king sinks into the back of the throne, where darkness hangs from the decorative canopy. It shrouds his face with a lemony shadow, blurs his lips—but not before I spot a strange smile.

  He points his spear at one of his attendants, and demands, “You heard him, didn’t you? The poor boy is hurt, he needs to recover! Oh fuck, he can’t stand rejection, can’t take that which I give.”

  The attendant shrugs, unsure how to respond.

  “Don’t you get it? I’m sitting here, sick to my stomach of all this,” Saul waves his hand about. “Yet he’s the one to complain?”

  At once the attendant understands. He nods his head, “Yes, yes, no doubt! A regular rebel, is what he is.”

  And Saul goes on to ask, “So? You tell me: should I show mercy—or strike him dead? Oh, never mind, don’t answer that, just don’t.”

  He rises from the throne and then—before anyone can guess his next move—he leaps off the stage and starts pacing furiously to and fro, faster and faster around the hall. And from all directions, his attendants rush to follow.

  They come quickly together to march in lockstep behind him, as if this has been practiced at least once or twice before. Their footfalls echo, echo around the space.

  At last Saul snatches a torch from the corner, nearly breaking the bracket that has secured it in its sconce. Then he comes back to shine the light directly in my face.

  “Now look, look at him,” he tells the others, over his shoulder. “Who, in heaven’s name, is this impudent child?”

  One of them leafs through some papers, papers that rustle in his trembling hands. At last, “This,” he says, “is David. David, son of Jesse. In Bethlehem, he’s thought to be a rising star—”

  “Who cares. Who’s the idiot who invited him?”

  “Your majesty, perhaps you’ve forgotten... You gave the order to send for the boy. Music, you said, might do you some good, I mean, it might soothe the ailing spirit. Forgive me, that’s just what you said—”

  “I did, didn’t I,” says the king, acidly. “I must have gotten some exceptionally rotten advice. Should’ve ignored it... What the hell was I thinking!”

  Torch in hand, he closes in on me. Now he is at an arm’s length. I can feel the heat. The flame licks my forehead.

  Instinctively I take a step back.

  “What a fresh face,” he seethes. “What a handsome, fresh face. What a smirk on those lips! What a glint in that eye! Look,” he whispers, this time mostly to himself. “Look at the folly of youth! A mirror of myself, the way I was back then, in the early days... Fucking happy! Thinking myself invincible—better than anyone—and yet pretending, somehow, to be humble. It pleases the crowds... Oh, what a laugh! What a horrible, horrible joke!”

  Stealthily I slide back. One step, then another.

  “Don’t you dare—stop—don’t leave me!” cries Saul. “Here, take this!” And in a flash, his hand flails wildly and out of it comes a flame, fuming ferociously, directly at me. It tears the air with a shriek—

  And before I know it, my hand shoots up and catches the thing, catches the torch by its wooden rod.

  In a blink his expression changes, or perhaps this is just an illusion, a shadow that dances across his face.

  “I should have known you could do it,” he says.

  And I say, “Do what?”

  And he says, “Recover.” In his mouth, the word is bitter.

  And I say, “Forgive me, your majesty. Recover I must.”

  And he says, “You’re too good at it.”

  And I shrug. “It’s just a skill I have.”

  “Alas,” he says. “It’s a skill I’m yet to learn.”

  “Takes practice,” say I.

  And he says, “Practice? Now that, perhaps, can be arranged. What a better place than here, in the court... I will give you ample opportunity! Recover, if you can… Over and over and over again. You might enjoy it, being who you are, and so will I, being who I am. For both of us, it’s going to be quite a game.”

  “Really?” I say. “What kind of a game?”

  “Call it survival,” says he. “Never gets repetitive, does it? But somehow I doubt you’d want to stay.”

  And without waiting for an answer he turns away. One of his attendants brings him the spear, which he has left up there, next to the throne. Leaning heavily on it, the king climbs up the stage and takes his seat, which is when I realize something truly strange: no longer do I fear him. Instead, I feel pity.

  “Go, why don’t you go back home,” he mutters, dismissing me with a casual wave of the hand.

  “Please,” I say. “Let me serve you. You’ll find my music soothing, I trust.”

  “Trust?” he says, locking eyes with me.

  “Just so, your majesty. Trust!”

  “There is no such thing, where I’m sitting.”

  “But my music—”

  “It awakens something in me,” he groans, pressing a hand against his temple. “Something I wish to ignore. An unspeakable sort of pain. There’s a demon in me, and I know—I just know he’ll break loose, he’ll take over, the moment I’ll let myself soften.”

  “Perhaps not,” I suggest. “If you soften, the pain may wash over you, heal your soul. You may find yourself rising anew, if only you would listen to me. Let me, your majesty. Let me play.”

  The king shakes his head, No. No.

  “It’s not the music,” he mutters. “It’s you. I can’t bare looking at you.”

  This leaves me dumbfounded, and I stand at his feet, waiting for what may come out of his lips next.

  After a while he moans, “Boy—”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever been wounded? Ever been on a battlefield?”

  “No,” I say. “My mother won’t let—”

  “Of course,” he bares his teeth, belittling me with laughter. “It’s always the mother. Yours must be a smart woman to keep you safe, away from any danger.”

  “I give you my word, I’ll follow you anywhere,” I say. “Even to the battlefield. Sounds exciting, no matter what my mother says.”

  He raises one of his eyebrows as if to say, I know how you feel. She hides the world from you, doesn’t she.

  “Yes,” I have to agree. “I hate it, hate being protected. Makes me wonder what’s on the other side of obedience.”

  He pays no attention to what I say. “Listen, boy. Let me tell you one thing: often, when I leave the bloodied scene and ride back here, a long way over the range of the mountains, I don’t even realize I’ve been wounded. My mind wanders, it roams elsewhere... But then…Then I look at myself. And what do I see? A slash, deep across my flesh... And this, this is the time—not a moment earlier—when the pain comes. In a snap, it takes a bite.”

  Saul takes a long pause. Then he looks straight down at me. “That’s how I feel, right this minute,” he says. “That’s what your music does to me.”

  There is nothing, absolutely nothing I can say to that. So I take a deep bow and pick up my flute. Then, as a show of respect, I walk backwards from him in the direction of the stone arc, from where I have entered this space.

  “Out, out with you!” he barks at me over the distance. “Go back home, back to your mother!”

  I bite my lips and turn to enter the corridor, which is where my eye catches a metallic flash.

  Hung on the wall is a
n shiny iron shield. I brush my fingers over the sharp ridges of the engraved inscription, trying to figure it out by touch.

  It says, The House of Kish. To a naive observer it may seem like an emblem of a highly respected ancestry—but as everyone around the country knows, Saul has no royal blood in his veins. He is the son of Kish, a lowly farmer who owns but a few asses. In his youth Saul used to tend to these stubborn animals.

  He may long for those carefree days. Even so, word on the street is that he did a lousy job, because the asses got lost more often than not. Everyone hopes and prays that he will do better as a king.

  The worst part is, his family comes from a tribe of ill-repute. The tribe of Benjamin is known to be nothing but a rowdy mob, notorious for an insatiable appetite for rape and murder, for which it was severely punished. In a fierce civil war, it was nearly wiped out—not so long ago—by the other tribes.

  For the life of me I cannot figure why the first king of Israel should be picked from the poor, the downtrodden. It is a questionable political decision—but perhaps it is better this way. In the back of his mind Saul should know his humble beginnings. He should feel compassion for his subjects, even though at this point all I sense out of him is rage and jealousy.

  He is the son of a simple farmer, which makes this emblem quite pretentious. But who cares? By instinct I get it, I understand his need to display the thing, because this is the way to create history, when none is available.

  The shield is highly polished. In it, the entire space is captured in reverse, and in an odd distortion. It is so warped that for a minute I have a difficulty to place things properly in perspective.

  They say that a mirror lets you face truth, but I wonder: how can it do so through distortions, through falsehood? I see a figure—a king—letting go of his weapon. Is it him—or me?