Before Jehoshaphat could dispel Ahishar’s accusations, Benaiah released a burst of air from between pursed lips, and his imposing scar began to dance. Yoshim’s eyes grew as round as the lemons on the table. But Solomon’s face was a blank clay tablet, as he awaited Jehoshaphat’s reply to etch his opinion.
Ahishar’s aim was clear. Reu’s warnings were proving true. The high steward was seeking to drive a wedge between Solomon and his northern brothers in hopes of civil war. Jehoshaphat didn’t yet understand how Ahishar planned to use the king’s harem, but he knew without a doubt that offering Arielah as a treaty bride would risk her life.
Calmly Jehoshaphat directed his reply to the king. “Yoshim and I met just this morning, and if it weren’t for Yoshim and the royal courier, Reu, I might never have successfully unbolted my door, nor would I ever find my way back to my chamber.” His easy manner and attempt at humor softened the king’s features. Jehoshaphat would gain nothing by growing defensive or accusing Ahishar without proof. The king must judge his new prince for himself. “So what does a king eat for breakfast?”
“I’m rather predictable,” Solomon said with a lingering gaze. “I have a propensity for goat’s milk, bread, and cheese.” Reaching for a dried fig, he began rolling it under his hand on the table. “And figs, fresh, dried, or candied—doesn’t matter. I love figs, and I eat the same thing every morning.”
“Well, then,” Jehoshaphat said, “I’ll have goat’s milk, bread, and cheese.” He reached for a fig and popped it in his mouth. “And figs.”
Solomon offered a slight nod, tossed a fig in the air, and caught it in his mouth. Jehoshaphat applauded. Even Benaiah’s jaw relaxed, and a slight grin cracked his hard exterior. Yoshim and the other servants hurried toward a door at the far corner of the king’s chamber, and Jehoshaphat tried to guess what they would report to Reu’s ima, the palace cook.
“So, tell me,” Solomon said when the four men had settled into silence, “if you didn’t know of my reforms when you came to Jerusalem, what prompted your journey?” His brow furrowed. “Did I hear you say you planned the journey the night of my abba’s death?”
“Yes, my lord.” Jehoshaphat’s heart pounded as he prayed,
Jehovah, give me wisdom. How much do I reveal? Do I offer my lamb for our nation’s peace?
Raising his eyes, he searched the faces of the men seated with him. “May I ask each of you a question before I answer?”
Solomon smiled, offered a forbearing nod.
“I understand that you have a son. Rehoboam, is it?” he asked Solomon.
“Yes, he is my firstborn.”
The king was noticeably aloof, but Jehoshaphat moved on. “And what about you, Ahishar? Do you have children?”
“No. I never married,” he said as if thoroughly bored. “I have dedicated my life to serving my kings.”
“What about you, Benaiah?”
The commander appeared quite uncomfortable, glancing first at the king and then back at Jehoshaphat. “Yes,” he said barely above a whisper. “I once had a son.”
“What?” Solomon’s remoteness disappeared. “Benaiah, I didn’t know you were ever married.”
Bathed in silent prayer, Jehoshaphat pressed on. “Would you mind sharing what happened to your son, Captain?”
“How do you know about my son?” Benaiah leaned dangerously close, his scar dancing.
Jehoshaphat drew a calming breath. “I had no idea you once had a son, but I’ve been praying that Jehovah would guide my conversation, Captain.” The two locked gazes. Measuring. Waiting. “Perhaps what you have to say will impact the proposal I will present to the king.”
With one last twitch of his left eyebrow, the big man spoke. “I was a young commander in King David’s army when my wife died giving birth to our son. His name was Ammizabad. When he became of age, David placed me over the Mighty Men, and I put my son in charge of my army division. He was killed the next day when the Edomites rioted.” Turning to Solomon, he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, my king, but you were too young to remember those days. I didn’t think the past mattered to my current post.”
“Well, this is all very moving.” Ahishar’s nasally whine split the air. “But what does it have to do with the night of King David’s death and Jehoshaphat’s more-than-coincidental arrival in Jerusalem?”
“Because I am offering my child to fight for the king,” Jehoshaphat said almost before Ahishar finished. “And the battle might just cost my child’s life.”
Solomon exchanged puzzled glances with his two advisors. “Prince Jehoshaphat, Israel is not at war,” he said amiably. “If your son is twenty or older, he has already been counted in the eight hundred thousand fighting men in Israel. And he would not be needed in Judah’s ranks. Our soldiers already number five hundred thousand.” Offering a kindly tilt of his head, he said, “You didn’t need an audience with me to request that your son enlist in the army.”
When Jehoshaphat smiled brightly, he expected all three men to call for the physicians, for his next words would surely tip the scales toward insanity. “It is not a son I offer to fight for Israel, King Solomon. It is my beloved daughter.”
•
1 Kings 4:7–19
•
Solomon also had twelve district governors over all Israel. . . . These are their names: Ben-Hur . . . Ben-Deker . . . Ben-Hesed . . . Ben-Abinadab . . . Baana . . . Ben-Geber . . . Ahinadab . . . Ahimaaz . . . Baana . . . Jehoshaphat son of Paruah—in Issachar; Shimei . . . Geber.
S
olomon studied the prince of his tenth district. What was he up to? This man, whom Abba David had lauded for his keen wisdom and integrity, knew better than to offer a woman for military service.
“My lord,” Ahishar sputtered, “surely you must reconsider your choice of tenth district governor. Jehoshaphat has obviously met with some accident or impairment to think his daughter could fight in Israel’s army.”
A slow, wry smile crept across Solomon’s lips. “Tell me, Prince Jehoshaphat, how will your daughter serve her nation?”
“I propose that my daughter fight for Israel’s unity by becoming your treaty bride.” The words were uttered quickly, quietly, matter-of-factly. The man never flinched. “As with the peace treaties you undertake by marrying foreign brides, my daughter will bring Israel peace.”
At first Solomon wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but Benaiah’s wide smile and Ahishar’s disgusted snort provided time to absorb the statement. “So, let me clarify,” he said, noting the sparkle in Jehoshaphat’s eyes. “You simply want me to marry your daughter.”
“Yes, my lord. My only daughter.”
Solomon’s amusement was piqued. “Your tongue was looser when we talked about goat’s milk and figs, my friend.”
Jehoshaphat grinned but said nothing.
“Forgive me if this sounds rude, Jehoshaphat, but does your daughter have two noses or twelve toes so you hide her while you pursue a suitor?”
“No, my lord,” Jehoshaphat said amiably. “She has but one nose and ten toes—at least, the last time I counted.”
Solomon threw his head back and laughed. “Come now, you must tell me more! Does the girl have a name?”
“Her name is Arielah.” Jehoshaphat resumed his silence and bounced his eyebrows.
“This is like watching a game of Hounds and Jackals!” Benaiah said with a delighted chuckle. “You must throw the knucklebones to advance your jackal, King Solomon. Give Jehoshaphat some information on your reforms to get information in return.”
“Oh, this is utterly ridiculous!” Ahishar blurted, distinct red patches forming on his neck and cheeks. Turning his frustration on Jehoshaphat, he said, “Have you any idea how many kings and noblemen petition for their daughters to marry King Solomon? How dare you deceive your way into the king’s chamber—”
“How dare you deceive the northern tribes and steal Abishag for King David’s belly warmer!” Jehoshaphat’s fury silenced the steward and startled Solomon. Benaiah was on his feet, ready to defend, but the king eased his commander with a glance. Benaiah resumed his place, and Solomon assessed his guests. Jehoshaphat’s rage had been aimed at no one but Ahishar. That much was plain.
So the two must have quarreled when Ahishar visited Shunem last year.
“My king,” Ahishar gasped, “are you going to let him speak to me that way?” As if his fear rang the chamber servants’ bell, their breakfast arrived on gold and silver platters.
Pausing while the bread, cheese, and fruit were served, Solomon studied the three men at his table. “I believe we will all speak plainly over our meal this morning.” He pinned all three elders with an imposing stare. “And I suggest we speak respectfully to each other if we wish respect in return.” Lingering on Ahishar, he noted the steward’s pout. Benaiah nodded and remained alert since none of them knew yet if this judge from Shunem could be trusted.
Solomon spread some soft goat cheese on a piece of bread and handed it to Jehoshaphat. “Persuade me, prince of Shunem, that marriage to your daughter will assuage the northern tribes’ anger. Prove to me that if I accept your treaty bride, northern Israel will cheerfully redistrict, pay taxes, and work as I command. In short, convince me that you come with honorable intentions and can aid my new government.”
He reached for his own piece of bread, spread the pungent cheese, and took a leisurely bite, hoping the relaxed posture would mask his angst.
Lord, let Your promised wisdom be at work in me now.
Shunem’s elder had been lauded as the wisest man in Israel. How would God’s new gift of wisdom stand up to negotiations with him?
Jehoshaphat’s expression was kind but intense. “By honoring a marriage contract with a Shulammite maiden, you will assuage the north’s anger over Abishag. The gesture is a sign of goodwill, a step of respect toward your northern brothers that will at least open their hearts to discuss your reforms and taxation.”
Solomon searched the man’s expression. “You neglected to mention the bride price, prince of Shunem. How much of the king’s treasure will find its way into your pockets?”
Jehoshaphat’s eyes penetrated Solomon’s soul. “May I honor you, King Solomon, with the same candor you’ve shown me?”
“By all means,” Solomon said. “It appears we have moved from Benaiah’s game of Hounds and Jackals to treaty negotiations.” Solomon’s words were intentionally clipped, distant.
“I would rather offer my daughter to a Shulammite,” Jehoshaphat said flatly. “I don’t need your wealth, and quite frankly, I wish my grandchildren could grow up before my eyes in the solitude and safety of Shunem’s hills.”
“Ha!” Ahishar gave a reproving laugh. “Don’t fall for his trickery, my lord.”
But Solomon saw only sincerity in the eyes that glistened with tears. “I don’t understand, Jehoshaphat. You are a man of great power in the north. Why have you allowed your constituents to proffer your daughter as the treaty bride?”
Instead of a direct answer, Jehoshaphat turned to Benaiah, who had grown quiet during the negotiations. “Did anyone force you or your son Ammizabad to fight for Israel?”
“Jehoshaphat!” Solomon was outraged. “Don’t you dare compare—”
But Benaiah lifted his hand, settling the king’s defense. And instead of indignation on the captain’s face, Solomon saw respect. “Just as I gave my son for Israel’s sake, my lord,” he said, turning to Solomon, “the prince of Shunem is placing his daughter in a battle for her nation’s unity.”
“What?” Solomon felt as if he had taken a blow. “Have you both tipped too many wineskins?” He glanced at Ahishar, who rolled his eyes, showing the same cynicism he felt. “How could either of you suggest a wedding and a war are the same? Benaiah, your son gave his
life
in battle. Jehoshaphat’s daughter would be a queen of Israel, living in the luxury of my harem!”
“And where did most of the threats to your abba’s kingdom start?” Benaiah asked quietly, respectfully. Not waiting for the answer, he replied, “In King David’s household, the very lifeblood of rebellion came from his harem.”
No!
Solomon rejected any such possibility. Solomon’s firstborn, Rehoboam, would never rape one of his sisters as Abba’s son Amnon had. One of Solomon’s sons would not betray him as Absalom had betrayed Abba David. But even as the memories assaulted him, he knew Benaiah was right. The harem was both the lifeblood of and the deathblow to any kingdom.
“My king.” Jehoshaphat’s gentle voice shattered the painful revelation. Solomon looked up to meet kind eyes and an understanding tone. “Benaiah’s son wore a leather breastplate to war. My Arielah’s battle armor will be the robes of Israel’s treaty bride.” Pointing to the captain’s dagger, he said, “Benaiah’s son fought with a sword and spear, but my daughter will bring her own weapon to the palace.”
“I’m sorry, Jehoshaphat,” Ahishar said. “I must draw the line here. None of the king’s wives are permitted to keep weapons in their private chambers.” His voice raised in pitch, and Solomon stared in disbelief at his blathering steward. “Do you have any idea of the ensuing anarchy if the women of the harem had
weapons
? There is only one entrance at each of the kings’ harems, and Judean watchmen guard the gates at all times, though no man is ever allowed inside the—”
“As I was saying, King Solomon,” Jehoshaphat interrupted, ignoring the steward, “my daughter brings with her the most powerful weapon on earth—love.”
Ahishar rolled his eyes, and Solomon couldn’t contain a chuckle. “Ah, so you’re a romantic man, given to shepherds’ verses and psalms like my abba David, no doubt.”
Shunem’s judge inclined his head, agreeing but using few words—as was the practice of most wise men.
“So tell me, Prince Jehoshaphat, does love make marriage a partnership, or is marriage a business arrangement between partners?” He hadn’t planned on this conversation, but now he longed to hear what the wise elder of the north would say.
“Can a grapevine grow without pruning?” Jehoshaphat asked.
Solomon laughed. “Ah, a true teacher. One who asks questions and gives no answers.”
Jehoshaphat nodded. Smiled.
“Yes, of course,” Solomon replied. “A grapevine can grow without pruning, but its harvest is greatly reduced by wild growth.”
“I have discovered marriage to be much the same, my lord,” the older man said. “It can exist without love; however, our lives reap the greatest blessing if the relationship is pruned by love.”
Pruned by love.
Solomon’s amusement faded. The idea of love was a fanciful thought, worthy of amiable discussion, but to consider its pruning, its cutting, its pain . . .
“My wife Jehosheba is as vital to me as the air I breathe,” Jehoshaphat said, undoubtedly noticing Solomon’s shifted mood. “A marriage filled with deep and abiding love is not only possible, my king, I believe it may be Yahweh’s greatest gift.” Jehoshaphat tossed a fig in his mouth and fixed his attention on the now uncomfortable king.
How had they arrived here, talking of abiding love, when this was simply a treaty negotiation? “A king’s marriages are not his own, I’m afraid,” Solomon said, reaching for a grape and trying to sound uninterested. “When Abba died, I inherited the responsibility of his twenty wives and concubines. I had ten wives of my own, and since returning from Gibeon, I’ve married . . .” He paused, looking to Ahishar for help.
“Five, my lord,” the steward offered with renewed interest.
“Yes, five new women—all of them representing foreign nations that promise new trade agreements and treaties. The gift of Jehovah’s wisdom has borne much fruit in my harem, my friend.” Solomon leaned back, waiting for Jehoshaphat’s congratulations. It didn’t come. In fact, he saw . . . was that sympathy on the man’s face?
“You cannot unlive your past or your abba’s decisions, my lord,” he said, placing his hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “However, you can choose your
future
carefully, and I believe with all my heart that Arielah is to be your bride—perhaps your last wife.”
Solomon felt a chill race through him.
My last wife?
The thought was absurd. A king in this political climate was forced to take many wives—not only to negotiate treaties and trade agreements but to build a lasting legacy.
Attempting to revive a more lighthearted conversation, Solomon countered, “Well, does that mean I’ll be paying her bride price for the rest of my life?”
Jehoshaphat’s expression was warm, but he didn’t join in Solomon’s light chuckle. Instead, he turned to Benaiah. “Captain, what price could the king offer to replace your son?”
“Jehoshaphat!” Solomon said.
But before he grew too annoyed, Benaiah leaned over and patted Jehoshaphat’s shoulder. “Well played, my friend. Well played.”
Solomon glanced between his two elders. It slowly dawned on him that his emotions had been masterfully maneuvered again.
Jehoshaphat’s kind expression opened the king’s heart. “As I said before, my lord, no amount of riches could compensate for my daughter. However, a fair bride price should be paid to continue building goodwill in the north.” His eyes glistened. “The amount of that is between you and Jehovah.”
Solomon marveled at Jehoshaphat’s ability to bend an opponent’s will and yet leave the rival’s dignity intact. He was an incredible ally and an honorable man.
Who knows? Perhaps he’ll even become a fine abba-in-law.
The thought amused him, and he extended his hand. “Well played indeed, my friend,” he said, repeating Benaiah’s words—and meaning them.
Jehoshaphat’s combination of integrity and diplomacy was impressive and birthed a new concept in Solomon’s transition for the northern tribes. “After falling victim to your treaty bride negotiations,” he said, still shaking hands, “I have a request to make of you, my friend.”
Shunem’s prince nodded, relaxing again on his goatskin. “Make it, my lord. I am your willing servant.”
Solomon raised an eyebrow, hoping he didn’t have to remind him of that vow after asking the favor. “Each of my twelve new governors will have identical responsibilities. They will organize foreign labor and collaborate with our Israelite workforces on national projects, and each district will provide the supplies for my household one moon cycle of each year.” Solomon waited for Jehoshaphat’s nod before he continued. “But you, Jehoshaphat, have the wisdom and diplomacy to influence all the districts as my goodwill ambassador.”
Jehoshaphat’s expression was unreadable papyrus. “And what exactly does a ‘goodwill ambassador’ do, my lord?”
“Well,” Solomon said, “you would travel among the northern districts, listening to concerns and shaping opinions on my reforms.”
“Shaping opinions? Mm-hmm.” Jehoshaphat’s deeply furrowed brow created a V that seemed foreign on such a genial face. “May I ask how long it’s been since you’ve visited a northern village, my lord?”
Solomon fought a moment of indignation.
Who is he to insinuate—
“The king grieved for King David at Gibeon,” Ahishar interjected, “which, of course, is the north’s most holy high place.”
But as Ahishar wore his smug expression, Solomon heard Jehoshaphat’s message as if he’d sounded a shofar in his ear. “I haven’t spent time among the northern tribes since I was a young boy and visited my abba’s vineyards in Baal Hamon.” Shame burned his cheeks. He’d grown accustomed to palace life and forgotten that most of those in his kingdom had never seen a mosaic floor. “What is it you propose, Jehoshaphat?” Solomon heard nothing but his own heartbeat while he waited for Jehoshaphat’s reaction.