Prevod

It was within the double redoubt of the stronghold of Mahanaim. Between the two lines of fortifications, on the ledge of grey stone that supported the casemate, David, exhausted, sat down to await news. For more than two hours he had been pacing impatiently, for the messengers still had not come. His feverish anxiety was heightened by his inability to go in person to the battlefield, since that would violate his firm resolve never to command troops in a civil war. Had it been a matter of fighting the Philistines and renewing the laurels of Balparasim, pouring out the heroic libation of the sacred water of Bethlehem rather than quenching his thirst while his soldiers languished, or of marshalling another battle of Rephaim, where strategy first worked miracles in the ancient world; had war flared against the idolatrous, independent Moabites, or the wealthy Arameans, or the insolent Ammonites who had outraged the ambassadors of Israel—there would have been David the slinger, the gibbor, the adventurer to whom the clash of weapons was sweeter music than the harmonies of the lyre. But to oppose his own people, to draw his sword or brandish his spear so that it might seek the flank of a friend, a kinsman, a companion—this had revolted David. And now, in this tragic hour, the king blessed that old resolve, which spared him from fighting his own flesh and blood, the darling of his soul, the light of his right eye, his son!

In violent circumstances and hours of extreme anxiety, there comes a moment when the nerves slacken and the body yields to its need for rest. The old monarch’s agitation and fever subsided once he had let himself sink onto that stone ledge in the lonely fortified enclosure. Through the arrow slits he could see the red light of the setting sun, which scorched the countryside with the glow of an enormous blaze. That crimson, bloody, devouring radiance was the last thing David noticed before closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall, forgetting the present, the anguish of uncertainty, and the terrors of the spirit...

And afterward he still saw that same sunset glow; but its colours had softened, melting into delicate half-tones of orange, gold, and green. It was the divine twilight of Eastern lands, a hundred times more beautiful than dawn. Pearly iridescence brightened the faint wisps of cloud, torn like shreds from the veil of a Philistine dancing girl; and against the glowing horizon the branches of sycamores and cedars formed a canopy of mystery and enticing shade. The cool air tempered the pungent exhalations of resins and gums; a voluptuous languor stole over the heart. David rose, leaned against the jasper balustrade of the terrace, and bent forward to gaze deep into the masses of greenery, drawn by the delicious murmur of jets of water streaming in fine threads into the broad marble basin from ten bronze mouths. And at the very moment the king leaned forward, a living statue appeared on the steps leading down to the pool, tinted rose by the reflected sky, clothed only in the abundance of her black hair, which parted like the strands of water, rippling and shining, playing and spreading, newly anointed with oil of spikenard that the woman, raising her arms, worked through the dark curls, twining them about her fingers...

All the fire of the heavens burned in David’s veins. From that hour onward, he marvelled inwardly, unable to understand. He was quite certain that his faithful cupbearer had not poured into his wine the juice of herbs in which the spell of some sorceress like the Witch of Endor treacherously instils the potion of sudden, fatal passion. David’s youthful days were past, those days when his unerring hand drove the sharp stone into the forehead of the monstrous giant. Countless women had filled the king’s nostrils with the perfume of their hair, and as it faded their images had vanished, for it was unworthy of the sage, the prophet, the leader, the lawgiver to grow soft in the harem, to become the captive of a frail woman. And yet, at that moment, there could be no doubt: it was the fire of heaven that burned in David’s veins, and the king knew that neither all the water in the pool nor that of the torrents rushing down from Cedar and Hebron would suffice to quench it. Bathsheba had stolen his senses, not with the creaking of her sandals—for her delicate feet were bare, and her slender ankle wore not even a silver ring—but with the peculiar fragrance of her curls, black as temptation.

Night swiftly fell, and many more nights followed, during which David sank deep into his sin, vaguely awaiting the hour of repentance. He sensed the coming of conscience, the descent of the stern and terrible angel. It was useless: his sin lay deep within his heart, rooted and fixed there like an arrow in a wound. Not even the arcane wisdom that Suleiman, whom we call Solomon, was to receive in time would be able to explain the causes of constancy in love, that strange phenomenon which draws one being inexorably toward another. David could not live without the wife of Uriah the Hittite, his finest officer, his valiant companion in arms. If only that woman had belonged to an enemy! Shuddering, David thought of the suggestions prompted by his favourite’s fear, of her pleas, tender and insinuating as a serpent’s hiss among the roses of the valley of Jericho. “I will not consent,” he murmured; but already the thought of deceit and crime was slipping into his soul, steeping it in poison. Uriah was condemned... The noblest and most generous feeling that military life engenders—loyal comradeship, the affection of men who face the same dangers and win the same glory—cried out to David: “You are about to commit the vilest of deeds.” And knowingly, David, whose conscience was awake, the great penitent, who felt unceasingly the tremendous presence of Elohim-Jehovah—for the fragrance of a woman’s hair, David sent Captain Uriah, one of the thirty gibborim, or mighty men, beneath the walls of Rabbath-Ammon, bearing a sealed message for General Joab; and in obedience to the royal command, Uriah was placed at the head of a detachment ordered to enter the city at all costs. And Uriah obeyed, joyful, eager for victory, and his body lay stretched at the foot of the wall, bathed in blood!

In David’s ears, filled with Bathsheba’s caressing, ambitious voice, another, terrible voice now sounded: that of Nathan the seer, through whose mouth the Lord spoke. Trembling in the arms of his favourite, the woman who was now his wife, he humbled himself before the wrathful anathema, the fateful curse. “Because you have done evil in my sight, the sword shall never depart from your house, and against your house I shall raise up evil...”

As he recalled the seer’s words, David uttered a moan of pain... and awoke, his temples drenched in cold sweat. He looked about him with bewildered, astonished eyes and recognised the place, that double fortified enclosure of Mahanaim, gloomy and forbidding, where only the sentry’s footsteps echoed, and from time to time the watchman’s guttural call could be heard. The red embers of the sunset had given way to the blackish blue of night, against which the stars twinkled sadly. Still no news? What could have happened out there in the forest of Ephraim, where since morning the forces of the rebel Absalom had been fighting David’s men, commanded by Joab? What havoc was that sword wreaking, the sword that, according to the prophecy, would never depart from his house? Suddenly, cries in the distance, a vast clamour. Mingled together were the trotting of steeds, the clash of arms, the din of infantry striking the earth with their heavy military footwear and driving the captives forward amid death cries and shouts of rage, the lowing of oxen drawing the carts of plunder—all that, to a warrior’s practised ear, proclaims triumph. David rose, pale and terrified: the garrison of the stronghold came hurrying with blazing torches, and the first messenger fell at the king’s feet, breathless, choking. “Let us praise the Lord...” he stammered. “The rebellion crushed, your enemies put to the sword... glory to the king!” Throwing himself upon the messenger, David exclaimed furiously:

“And my son? What of Absalom, my son, my heir, the royal prince?” There was no answer. Another messenger arrived, panting, wild with joy. “The Lord has confounded those who sought to harm you. Twenty thousand lie on the battlefield, consumed by the sword, food for vultures. And Absalom, suspended between heaven and earth, hanging from the branches of a terebinth, has received many darts in his breast. It was your good fortune, O king, that the prince’s beautiful hair, steeped in perfume, became entangled in the branches and checked his headlong flight. But for those black curls that fell like ripe clusters of grapes down his back... your enemy would have escaped, so swiftly did his mule run...”

And the messenger fell silent, for the king had just collapsed upon the ground, clawing his face, tearing his hair, and sobbing: “My son, my son!”