executions. The threat of the northern tribes was real, but in spite of the unrest, Israelites loved their king. No war cries had erupted, only the wailing of mourners.
“You should get some rest, my friend,” Solomon said, taking his place on the low grieving stool in his bedchamber. “I’ll return this morning’s compliment: you look awful.” Benaiah finally grinned, and Solomon added one more goad. “But at least you get to wear your battle armor and sandals. I’m stuck in this torn sackcloth robe and slippers for thirty days.” He looked longingly at his empty washbasin, hardly able to imagine the passing of a full moon’s cycle without washing, working, or enjoying the pleasure of a woman.
Benaiah tugged at the tunic beneath his leather breastplate. “I’ll have you know your guards wear sackcloth beneath their armor, my lord.” The mountainous man itched and wriggled like a fidgety child. “We will feel the discomfort of grief while remaining faithful to our king.” Bowing, he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove this armor and try to get some much-anticipated rest.”
Solomon watched him walk away, but stopped him with one last thought. “Benaiah?”
His friend turned with a furrowed brow and cocked his head.
“Thank you for helping me carry out Abba’s last wishes. You even searched out that weasel Shimei and brought him to the throne hall for sentencing. I feel like you’ve given me a fresh start, a new beginning.”
Benaiah shrugged, offering an impish grin. “Would you like to wager a wineskin on how long it will be before Shimei leaves Jerusalem and brings down judgment on himself?”
“I’ll wager you will be waiting for him when he does!” Solomon chuckled but sobered as he carefully fashioned his next words. “ Thank you hardly seems appropriate when speaking of executing my traitorous brother and cousin, but I’m deeply grateful for your faithfulness to execute Adonijah and Joab. It couldn’t have been easy to enter the Lord’s tent and strike down that coward Joab while he held on to the horns of the altar.”
Benaiah nodded, seeming to accept the appreciation given. An uneasy silence settled between them. Hoping to assuage whatever doubts his friend might be feeling, Solomon added, “Joab was calculating and cold, my friend. He was a manipulator, and he knew your abba was a priest. He never dreamed you’d obey my command to kill him at the altar.”
Benaiah lifted his left eyebrow, stretching the imposing battle scar extending up from his jawbone. “Joab seriously miscalculated my loyalty to my king.” His words were unadorned, matter-of-fact, and they put to rest any concern Solomon had that his new commander second-guessed today’s events.
Solomon watched his friend’s scar throb and realized he hardly noticed it—except at times like these. He often forgot Benaiah was first and foremost a warrior. “Do you ever doubt, Benaiah? Isn’t there something I might ask of you that you wouldn’t do?”
His commander returned, covering the distance between them in two steps. Towering above Solomon, he said, “I will disobey you only if it will save your life, my king.”
They stood in silence, Solomon contemplating the weight of such a statement, until a knock on the king’s door interrupted the moment. Benaiah stepped away, and Solomon shouted, “Come!”
A disheveled Egyptian courier stood before them, escorted by one of Benaiah’s Pelethite guards. The courier was panting, dust-covered, but worse—he looked haunted, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “My lord, Pharaoh’s ambassador and caravan will arrive in Jerusalem before dawn . . .” He spoke perfect Hebrew, but he hesitated, seemingly uncertain as to whom he should direct his news. He glanced first at the king and then at the servants and soldiers.
“Why is the Egyptian ambassador coming now?” Solomon asked, exasperated. It had been an
“You should get some rest, my friend,” Solomon said, taking his place on the low grieving stool in his bedchamber. “I’ll return this morning’s compliment: you look awful.” Benaiah finally grinned, and Solomon added one more goad. “But at least you get to wear your battle armor and sandals. I’m stuck in this torn sackcloth robe and slippers for thirty days.” He looked longingly at his empty washbasin, hardly able to imagine the passing of a full moon’s cycle without washing, working, or enjoying the pleasure of a woman.
Benaiah tugged at the tunic beneath his leather breastplate. “I’ll have you know your guards wear sackcloth beneath their armor, my lord.” The mountainous man itched and wriggled like a fidgety child. “We will feel the discomfort of grief while remaining faithful to our king.” Bowing, he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove this armor and try to get some much-anticipated rest.”
Solomon watched him walk away, but stopped him with one last thought. “Benaiah?”
His friend turned with a furrowed brow and cocked his head.
“Thank you for helping me carry out Abba’s last wishes. You even searched out that weasel Shimei and brought him to the throne hall for sentencing. I feel like you’ve given me a fresh start, a new beginning.”
Benaiah shrugged, offering an impish grin. “Would you like to wager a wineskin on how long it will be before Shimei leaves Jerusalem and brings down judgment on himself?”
“I’ll wager you will be waiting for him when he does!” Solomon chuckled but sobered as he carefully fashioned his next words. “ Thank you hardly seems appropriate when speaking of executing my traitorous brother and cousin, but I’m deeply grateful for your faithfulness to execute Adonijah and Joab. It couldn’t have been easy to enter the Lord’s tent and strike down that coward Joab while he held on to the horns of the altar.”
Benaiah nodded, seeming to accept the appreciation given. An uneasy silence settled between them. Hoping to assuage whatever doubts his friend might be feeling, Solomon added, “Joab was calculating and cold, my friend. He was a manipulator, and he knew your abba was a priest. He never dreamed you’d obey my command to kill him at the altar.”
Benaiah lifted his left eyebrow, stretching the imposing battle scar extending up from his jawbone. “Joab seriously miscalculated my loyalty to my king.” His words were unadorned, matter-of-fact, and they put to rest any concern Solomon had that his new commander second-guessed today’s events.
Solomon watched his friend’s scar throb and realized he hardly noticed it—except at times like these. He often forgot Benaiah was first and foremost a warrior. “Do you ever doubt, Benaiah? Isn’t there something I might ask of you that you wouldn’t do?”
His commander returned, covering the distance between them in two steps. Towering above Solomon, he said, “I will disobey you only if it will save your life, my king.”
They stood in silence, Solomon contemplating the weight of such a statement, until a knock on the king’s door interrupted the moment. Benaiah stepped away, and Solomon shouted, “Come!”
A disheveled Egyptian courier stood before them, escorted by one of Benaiah’s Pelethite guards. The courier was panting, dust-covered, but worse—he looked haunted, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “My lord, Pharaoh’s ambassador and caravan will arrive in Jerusalem before dawn . . .” He spoke perfect Hebrew, but he hesitated, seemingly uncertain as to whom he should direct his news. He glanced first at the king and then at the servants and soldiers.
“Why is the Egyptian ambassador coming now?” Solomon asked, exasperated. It had been an
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