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Land who has not. But the stories that grow up around a king are strong vines with a fierce grip. They pull life from whatever surfaces they cling to, while the roots, maybe, wither and rot until you cannot find the place from which the seed of the vine has truly sprung. That was my task: to uncover those earliest roots. And he had directed me to the seedbed.

III
    T he Sheep Gate was not yet open when I set out. The captain of the guard, recognizing me, quickly gave the necessary orders and I urged the mule on. I never tire of the view from that gate, where the land slopes steeply away from the city walls and the light silvers the leaves of the olive groves that cling so tenaciously to the thin soils. Below, the valley was already a wash of swaying green. Families, early to work in the cool of the morning, bent their backs in their plots of flax and barley, somehow coaxing plenty out of crusty earth that seems more stone than tilth. A man plied his goad on a pair of oxen, prodding them forward ahead of his plow. Nearby, his sons did battle with the sprouting thistles and thorn bushes that threatened the young plantings. That is the only battle they now must do, thanks to the king. Common folk are no longer called away from their fields. Our standing army, trained and organized, is sufficient for such skirmishes as still trouble our borders.
    The road to Beit Lehem is through the hill country and soon enough, the land began to rise again. I let the mule set her own sure-footed pace as we began to climb. Farmland slowly ceded to the fir forests that lie between the settled areas. By the time we passed into the dense emerald stands, the sun had risen high enough to make me glad of the fragrant shade.
    When I reached the outskirts of Beit Lehem I stopped at the well to ask direction. The women drew their mantles about themselves asI approached, but were easily able to point the way to a property on a gentle rise to the east of the town. It was a tidy compound set behind high walls. Within, three small, pillared houses shared a large courtyard. This was divided into two parts by a grape arbor. The noisome things—the kine pens, the dun cakes drying in the sun—occupied the downwind side, while a table and the hive-shaped
tannur
sat beneath a large old citron on the other. The tree was in blossom, so the tang of citrus mingled with the lingering scent of the morning’s baking.
    It was here that David’s brother Shammah received me. And not with good grace. He had been pacing. The courtyard was etched across with a raw line of yellow earth stamped with the marks of his heavy tread. He was a big man who had let his large frame run to fat in the years since he had left the army and taken up the role of local judge. He looked nothing like his brother. Not simply because he was a decade older. The two were different in build, coloring, voice, manner, gait.
    There was a table set in the shade of the citron trees, but Shammah did not invite me to sit. So I stood while a boy—Shammah’s nephew or grandson, it was not clear—barred the wooden door behind me and took charge of my mule, leading her to the kine pens. Shammah strode up to me and stood, toe to toe. I am tall enough, but he was taller, and his massive neck and shoulders blocked out the light. “What in the name of a she-ass’s cunt is my brother playing at now? ‘Tell Natan everything.’ What shit is this?”
    I was taken aback by Shammah’s tone, but even more by the implication of his words, his knowledge that I was coming, and my reasons for being there. For word to reach Shammah ahead of me, the king must have dispatched a royal messenger directly after our meeting, even before he sent me the list of names. I must have shown surprise.
    â€œDid you not know he commanded that I receive you? You think I would have agreed to admit you here on this mad errand had he not?He sent word last night, set my son Yonadav to ride here,