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About the author:
These books are available in all three editions (audiobook, print and ebook.)
What inspired you to write your book?
There is no right and wrong way to interpret the story. As an artist and writer, I believe that my mission is to let the characters speak to you through me. The king is flesh and blood in my mind, and so is Bathsheba. This story is happening here and now.
Here is a short sample from the book:
For a while, sleep must have overtaken me. With a sudden start I raise myself on my elbows. I listen. The party is over. My eyes are heavy, but I force them open. Abishag slumbers fitfully, her arms bound around my neck, her face turned away, flushed with desire, her mouth yearning to be kissed—but not by me.
I used to be so skilled with women. Now my decrepit body lays bare before her. There is no need to cover myself, because my chill comes from within. I shiver, knowing I cannot take her. She is—and will forever remain—a maiden.
As I slip away from her touch, the sleeping girl waves her hand in the air like one flicking off an annoying fly. Then she curls like a baby over her knees.
Supported by my scepter I begin lumbering barefoot across the chamber. Its darkness is dabbed here and there with a silvery ray of moonshine, which allows me to find my way, somehow, around the furniture to the other side, to the windowsill.
Torches are flickering out there, along the path leading to the royal gardens. On the other side of the flames Adoniah sits alone at the head of the table. Half a smile is twitching on his face, contorting it, so it is hard for me to distinguish satisfaction from bitterness. I ask myself what is the best thing I can do for him.
By his expression I read the answer. Expire.
No, that cannot be true. My heart goes out to him. What a sensitive, sweet child he used to be. Why does he hate me so? How did it come to that?
Now Adoniah lifts his hand, and plows across puddles and spills of red wine, while staring blankly at the waste. Leftover pastries are strewn among the stains, all over the richly embroidered tablecloth. Remnants of flowery decorations are dangling here and there, in disarray, from the moonlit branches.
He licks his sticky finger, flicks off some stale crumbs, and peers at his empty glass.
I think I spot a spark, a mad flash in his eye. What does he see there? Why does he shake his head and start talking to himself, as if to rehearse a speech? I suppose that for him, silence is something he cannot easily ignore.
I should talk to my son, help him overcome his anger. We should try to mend things between us. But before I can call out to him Adoniah raises his head, casting a look directly at my chamber window. The flame between us outlines only one side of his face. Ferocious intensity seems to be burning in his eye. Perhaps it is nothing but a reflection of torchlight.
I am quite certain that blinded by the light, he cannot spot me—yet without even thinking I raise my scepter, as if to defend myself, and sink back into the darkest dark.
“Beware,” I whisper.
Whatever else I may have lost during the years of my decline, the instinct of a fighter is still in me, which I find amazing. I hope it will go on sustaining me to the very end.