The Secret Chord by Geraldine Brooks Page A

you think?” he asked her.
    â€œHe had very white hands,” she said. “I suppose a dye merchant need not handle his own product, and yet . . .” She let her voice trail off.
    â€œWhat else?”
    She tilted her head, considering. “He seemed a bit confused, for a dye merchant, between
tekelet
and
argaman.”
    â€œWhat?” said David. “Is there a difference, then?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Avigail replied. “One is a blue purple, the other a warmer, reddish purple. It’s true, the distinction can be difficult to make”—she smiled—“though not if you’re canny—one is muchcheaper, and no capable wife in purse to afford the dye in the first place would let herself be misled. And if it is your trade and livelihood . . . and you say you sell to a king . . .”
    She always fashioned her words in that way, opening a question rather than giving a certain answer, so that David might feel that he had come to the truth himself.
    â€œAnything more?”
    She paused. “Well, he said he traveled often by the Derek Hayyam, but it was clear when he spoke that he did not recall that the highway turns inland in the Carmel mountains to cross the plain of Yezreel at Megiddo.”
    David frowned. “Spy, do you think?”
    â€œPerhaps not. Perhaps Shaul’s spy would be more careful. More likely a brigand with a disreputable past, who does not want to own to it.”
    â€œIn any case, I will send him on his way in the morning. I’ll not take a chance on him.”
    Had it gone the other way, had Avigail found the man’s tale convincing, he would have been embraced on her word. There would be a celebration to seal his joining the band—singing and dancing, the sharing of stories. Such nights were full of music and mirth and good feeling. That was how David drew men to him and made them his. He never forgot a man’s story and could recall the names of his kin and all those who were dear to him, wept with him in loss, celebrated with him in joy. He learned which man enjoyed a ribald jest and which of them disapproved of bawdiness, and tailored his words accordingly. It was not that he played false in this. He had both elements in his nature, both the coarse and the refined. He could be a predator at noonday and a poet by dusk. And he exercised uncommon tact with his men, meeting them where they stood, rather than demanding that they always be the ones accommodating themselves. I have learned over time that this quality is rare in any man, even more so in a leader.
    Those who knew or loved music found an instant bond with him. You cannot harmonize in song or play instruments together without listening one to the other, sensing when to be loud and when soft, when to take the lead and when to yield it. I think that few grasp the connection between waging war and making music, but in the long evenings, when the firelight flickered on the cave walls and the voices joined and rose with his, I learned the unity between the two.
    Having had so little love from his own brothers, this adopted family was what he cherished, and they cherished him in return. But none came into this family without Avigail’s scrutiny. I never knew her to judge wrong. So I came to rely on her to teach me how to read men. And women also. I enjoyed the hours that I spent in the women’s tent. I liked the subtlety of the women’s way with one another, the veiled indirection of their talk. Most men, you needed only to look into their faces to know their mood, and generally their speech would be the first thought that came into their minds uttered out of their mouths. Women, whose very lives, sometimes, might depend upon concealing their true feelings, spoke a more artful language, more difficult to understand.
    David set me to learn other skills, too, in those days of restless waiting. Arms, I had to learn, as did every man and boy. I