Bathsheba Read Free Page B

also a widower.”
    The bride’s father heaved a sigh. “My wife died in childbirth, leaving me with two daughters, both of whom are beautiful. But Amaris, my youngest . . .” He shifted his attention to the musicians in the courtyard. “I have a feeling she will remain under my roof for the rest of her life.”
    I followed his gaze and spotted a child of ten or eleven years sitting near a trumpet player. A pretty girl, she sat on a pillow and slapped a tambourine in time to the music. Only when I looked down did I see her misshapen foot.
    I turned back to her father. “Can she walk?”
    He shrugged. “Slowly, with a crutch. In the house, she finds it easier to crawl on her hands and knees. And I know few men who would want a wife who crawls to his bed every night.”
    “She looks happy and content,” I said. “Surely such a pleasant girl would not be an imposition.”
    “Not an imposition”—Eliam tugged on his beard—“so long as I have a nurse to care for her. Years ago the widow Elisheba stepped into my late wife’s place, and she has cared for both my daughters. But I am no fool and I’ve accepted that Amaris will probably never marry.” His eyes narrowed as he shot me a pointed look. “Unless you might want a pretty wife who can play the harp and sew for you. She’s young, but she’ll be of marriageable age in a few years.”
    The thought of marrying Bathsheba’s sister scraped against the scar on my heart, but I refused to let the pain show on my face.
    I shook my head. “Thank you, but I have a wife and two daughters. My little house already overflows with women.”
    Eliam grinned. “I have heard that you are wise, Nathan, and now I know the stories are true. No man should have more wives than he can honestly love.”
    With great difficulty I summoned the courage to speak of Uriah’s new wife. “Your eldest daughter, is she a happy bride?”
    “Our Bathsheba?” Ahithophel’s voice rang with pride, and I saw the same emotion mirrored in Eliam’s eyes. “Our treasure is completely happy to be marrying the man we have chosen. We had good reasons for not accepting just any man for her, and would never have accepted a Hittite, no matter how skilled a soldier—”
    “Yet I convinced him Uriah was the right man,” Eliam interrupted, leaning toward me. “I have fought beside him long enough to know Uriah is among the best of his people—strong, bright, and skilled. His father was a metalworker, and I hope Uriah will take up the trade one day. Such a trade—such skills—might change the course of Israel’s future.”
    “In peacetime,” Ahithophel added, staring at the ground, “when we need more plows than swords.”
    Eliam and I lifted our drinks. “May peacetime come soon.”
    I had just emptied my cup when the door to the house opened. Uriah stepped through the doorway, his face gleaming with a sweaty smile. He lifted a linen sheet dotted with bright red drops.
    A collective cheer rose from the assembled guests, and pitchers of wine traveled through the crowd again.
    Holding tight to my empty cup, I ignored the passing vessels and adjusted my position to see around Uriah’s bulky form. Standing behind him, but firmly gripping his hand, stood Bathsheba . . . still the most beautiful woman I had ever beheld.
    My teacher, Samuel, had taught us that prophets must be skilled with language to frame God’s truth in the most powerful words possible. But language failed me as I beheld Uriah’s wife, leaving my tongue thick and awkward. The woman in the doorway possessed all the proper parts—two eyes, a straight nose, full lips, a delicate pair of ears, thick, lustrous hair—but the arrangement of those elements was more pleasing than sinuous Egyptian vases and the colorful painted works of Canaanite artists. She had grown into the embodiment of female perfection. Yet not only did her form leave me breathless, but her countenance radiated kindness, compassion, and virtue. Her