He walked to the edge of the roof and looked down the slope to where his winepress and clusters of olive trees blended into the fragrant pines of the lower hillside.
“I don’t believe it,” he muttered.
In the turmoil of his own emotions he had completely ignored his wife, Reba. Now she came to him and placed a firm hand on his arm. “Emmiel is strong and brave. I’m sure he will be all right.”
Ahithophel did not look at her. “You think he went then? Why should he go? I don’t understand.”
“He would go,” said Reba, “because he loves his country. His quarrel is with Saul. That a king could be so jealous of a young, successful captain like David that he would seek to kill him is repulsive to our son. He would never fight for King Saul. But Israel? That is different.”
“But why? Why did he tell that sniveling wife of his and not his own father? I don’t understand.”
“My lord, our son is emotional and impulsive, and he knew that you would try to dissuade him with logic.”
Ahithophel sighed. Reba was right. His family, friends and neighbors all looked up to him as a man of wisdom and had chosen him as the ruling elder of Giloh. He was considered wealthy by village standards; his olive oil brought the highest prices, his granaries were bursting with wheat, his flocks overflowed the sheepcotes every spring.
Pragmatic to the core, Ahithophel wasted no time in religious discussion or reflection. He believed in observing the feasts and times of sacrifice, the circumcising of children, giving the firstfruits and being careful to touch no unclean thing. In return he expected and even took for granted that the God of Israel would reward him with good health, abundant crops, and deliverance from his enemies.
He was known as one who was loyal to his friends but a bitter opponent to his enemies. Above all, he cherished his family. Though his wife, Reba, kept close to the loom and the grindstone, when she chose to speak, it was noted by the amused villagers that Ahithophel usually listened. And though he, himself, was critical of Emmiel for choosing to live in exile with David ben Jesse in the desert caves of Adullam, he would listen to no complaint of him from others. He was proud of his two grandchildren: Machir, a boy of twelve, and Bathsheba, a spirited girl of six. However, it was his granddaughter with her big, brown, laughing eyes and thick, curling, wispy hair who really held the heart of Ahithophel.
Often when he was sitting at the town gate discussing important matters with the elders, he would see Bathsheba’s large brown eyes peeping at him from behind the carob tree that grew in the open square. He would always pause in his deliberation and hold out his hand to her, and Bathsheba would come running to him, her small brown feet leaving little curls of dust and her hair blowing out from under the embroidered kerchief. Standing on tiptoe she would whisper something in his ear, then scamper shyly away.
His eyes followed her with satisfaction as he commented to his friends, “She will be a beauty.”
* * *
The daylight hours dragged into evening, and still there was no news of the battle. A meal was spread in the courtyard, but no one cared to eat. Gradually the old men of Giloh came by twos and threes to discuss with their chief elder the strange quiet and their fears for the army of Israel. As silently as shadows they appeared, wrapped in their warm, brown, loom-woven cloaks to sit by the fire of fir twigs and dung patties in the corner of the courtyard.
“My boy went with only his shepherd’s crook and sling,” said one old man with terror in his eyes.
“Mine had a bow and arrows but no armor, only the clothes he was working in,” another lamented.
“The Philistine chariots are swifter than eagles. Their iron weapons pierce the leather shields of our men as though they were made of air,” voiced a third.
“My brother,” Ahithophel cut across the babble, “it is true. If the battle is lost at Gilboa the Philistines will claim the fords at the Jordan, roll on to take the trade route to Damascus and sweep down the Jordan Valley to attack Bethlehem and our own village of Giloh. We must prepare ourselves.” He rose to his feet and walked with them to the doorway.
“You, Philemon, and your family will gather fuel and water. The rest of you must collect large boulders and stones to be thrown from the walls if we are attacked.”
He closed the front gate behind the frightened villagers, and turned back into his courtyard. The women had returned to their quarters, and Machir sat listlessly on the roof cutting holes in some dried gourds, which would be used for storing honey. Bathsheba stood, with large, questioning eyes, watching her grandfather. When he sat back down by the fire, she came and cuddled up close to him laying her head against his arm.